It has come down to this, I suppose,
keeping the circle closed.
Sometimes a stone needs no polish…
to make it one’s own.
Flesh being…only water and bone.
Scorned and paranoid…are but a distant memory.
When coiled, almost fetal…true blood is after all, a distant destiny.
A sentence that becomes text, that becomes, never done.
Lambs, infantile…circle of eight on the run.
Less reluctantly, a new world order has beckoned.
As the creatures who provide the crazy to the tree…
Unity, serenity, possibly…four legs or more of tranquility.
So the fur lined bed is pulled up close to me.
Just a new, old day.
Sticks, stones, unpolished, at home in the fray.