Astraea
Humble me sweet maiden harvest my bones so you may feast on my abundance and adoration for your eyes. Improvise the pain of longing for me — the doe lingers through my mind wandering with the wind and the stars. Sweet cottonwood, guide me to the virgin’s smile — bind me to the earth so she may place roots into my heart leaving me in her wake to assess this pain. The earth whispers to me about her absence — I do not possess the floral mind — I merely live in translations. Before you left, your footprints left ripples in the Mojave sands, rejuvenating harvest in the death of winter. Like moonstone and amethyst I commune with your constellations awaiting your saccharine devotion to the healing of time.