It is coming
it comes
not as a sparrow’s breath
barely moving the leaves
beneath its feet
nor as its song
almost heard
among the whispers
of the trees
but like a dragon’s voice
and the grind of its teeth
on well-worn stone
a warning it will rain
again and again

These thoughts
of mother earth
that bind, connect
like apron strings— 
umbilical

this lust for land
a mother’s arms
burying
us in her breasts— 
soft sand

no life
separated from
her skin
the ground beneath— 
such eyes

the sky above
with mother’s love
we touch
infinity and hell— 
forbidden love.

Chaos in a thimble-full
A frenzy in the air

cataclysms bending
angles past the sun

anarchy in the feeding frenzy
of the stars

nothing connects
to the center to the earth     

the center boils
the crust on fire

nothing connected
everything askew

in these small-such worlds
confusion and disarray

where there are no reigns
pandemonium rules.