SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Monday, Dec. 13, 2004 @ 1:36 am
Prairie Blue Eyes



Running on a Sunday, confessing to the steam rising from the thawing crystalline path. Purify me, forest, cold winter sun - wash my soul, wash off your seed that I rubbed in. That sweet warm happiness. Sowing you beneath my skin, and the flowers bloom across my cheeks. Fuschias from my finger tips, and I brush the petals across you. Fuschias, they grew wild in Ireland, roadside weeds... Ireland, you and me, our names Irish, our blood anything but.

Your eyes, blue like the prairie sky. Clouds tethered to the grassy plains below. Ponies gallop, their steel shoes strike flint, kicking sparks up into your eyes. Sparking the fire that burns between us, so enticing, hypnotic fire. It wells up between our closely spaced faces, a rising sun so that we must close our wide-eyes. Into that blue prairie sky it rises and the buffalo stampede, thump thump, is the sound of our hearts.

Your saline is in my eyes. My eyes rested all night within your protecting shelter, so now, everytime I blink, I see what you see. You see in my eyes everything that I never say. It oozes from me, the beauty that I take in, from the ground to the sky, all the colours. Your beauty is truly from within. I nearly forget to be offended...

Click, click, click. In the studio. I listen to you record that song one, two, three times. Your hands, your eyes, your heart - I believe that you will be great.




Roots | Shoots