Folk

Little worlds,they are such
little worlds, but beautiful.
Little gold paint on the rim
chips slowly in the water, floats
away with a circular glide,
sparkles in the light. A candle
burns inside the frame, frozen
in a stillness of oil undried.
Little flies touch softly
on the still damp surface, leaving
footprints of their slender bristles.
The buzzing is a gentle drone,
like soft aloe leaves growing, pushing
against a window screen, or glowing
logs on a hearth, punctuated
by the softest pops in the heartwood.
Heartwood was once a shoot, a sprig
laughing its way to the surface
warmed by rain. A warren full
of new life, wrapped in scents of musk,
fur and new fir, a whole home
for the young ones learning to love light.
The smallest flakes of light drop
like woodchips chirping against wet pavement,
boiling water splashing just over the rim
hisses with the same sound, and a groan
from a grain silo is the same.

"If I could I would break into flower."