She was the black sheep of the family
wearing nothing but a blue sky crinoline butterfly
tasting of honey on Sundays only
and
smelling of the first downpour of Spring
morning’s chill feels like electric rivulose
see how it brightens the stripes of day?
how it tickles your sense of play?
oh April in Aspen
wearing morning’s everything
(or maybe not)
when it rains things become faster
so
give it a lash you fluthered culchie!
there where you see the worn old path to rocks & rivers
the softening comes as the rain torrents down down down
April flies to Venus in Taurus 93% illuminated
as Bird rests....
oh come to pass in June this will be!
the black sheep of the family
blue fields burning turning night to winter’s carnival
céad míle fáilte
“goodbye
good night”, says the rock from river deep
she was the black sheep of the family
in
Spring she found her gravity
