from HOW TO STAY Feather-drifting thick flakes of spring snow catch and melt in Vesper’s curls. I’m an old half, she says, then, koala crying. My neighbor lifts and shapes a tall vase, explains craft saturates into philosophy. I spread my hands between story and sound, sip wild white sage tea, brain finger-limned, slipping yarn through parabolas of decrease. It’s dinner time. Our children wedge the dough like clay. Later, like language, they devour it.
Bronwen Tate @bronwentate.bsky.social