[Funkduder]

For Angela, for my heart will wander towards what it cannot fear nor understand.

Nature, within her, has yet to reap a harvest
That the sower, and harvester, has not thrown away.
Seeds grown and blossoming into wheat to be spirited away
Have yet to find a ground to regrow and famish the land.
A bountiful harvest is only plenty to those who grind at it into flour.

But unlike her, a fisherman’s catch has been gutted,
Striped of its shining scales and eyes,
And to his eyes, the fish is not breathing,
Yet its fragrances deepen the bellies of the deep.
But this is unlike her, for this is the work of martyrs

I know not why snow is white
But I know it is beautiful, pure and unchanging
And perhaps a tad too innocent
That which is untouched can be stained
But this is unlike her, for she cannot be changed

And her open arms are no longer
Like what is considered open for a friend or lover to rest
But what little is needed for the achievement of that
Which can only be achieved through the spirit (will or soul)
Of one self, for If nothing else, this can be touched.

Until the seas, once again, gangs dry