santos scribes

let me first spend some of each day, some of each breath 

looking after what is true- 

the purple star flower of a flax seed 

true 

Sun Golds like Easter eggs on a late August vine 

true 

the squinty red bloom of a Desert Rose

true 

an Archipelago of clouds in a great blue sky (like a story, like a family)

true 

the tiny, pressed preservation of a nameless wildflower

true 

rocks

true 

bursts of waning yarrow in morning light

true 

the illusion of separateness