mama earth
swollen in the right places--
wind fingers stroking
new seeds planted.
tender are faces that surface,
new and fresh.
somebody told me angels cry
on good friday.
do sunflowers greet the tomb?
these ideas--
love, baby's breath,
lack the esoteric.
minds are stormy that way,
strangling the night
out of the windows.
if only hearts weren't tombs.
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