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All week with my hands digging into the soil. Springtime in Virginia means mulch and more mulch, birds chirping, squiggly worms, robin eggs, bunnies, and so much chatter in my enchanted forest. It feels as though the very trees hold secrets within each root and whisper stories if you but take the time to listen. And if my secret garden played the violin, it would song like this: LINK CONCLUSION: Hold a poem with your bear hands just by digging in the dirt. Comments are closed.
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DEAR READER
Welcome to my literature, music, and visual poetry project. My blog represents a method for deciphering the fragments left behind in the Anthropocene. Writers use ashes as a metaphorical device in storytelling. Have you ever wondered about the symbolism of ashes? Archaeological fragments of tablet, papyrus, bone, scroll, and pottery are recognizable the world over. In our digital era, however, our lost folkloric works disintegrate into dust. In this sense, I consume the silver flakes and use my he{art] as a vessel to rise from dystopic wastelands. I share lore through the oral tradition. Ashes to Ashes we continue on ∞ to infinity ∞ We are ash. We are stories. We are star dust. We are eternal.
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November 2024
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