Scatters

Scatters
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Beneath the swirled oyster sky
the berries lay on the land
as if the wind could not stand
the beauty of them garnishing the bushes.

Robins, stained with blood,
mimic Christ's suffering.
The root of the mandrake finds itself
upon the table and St. John's Wort
is picked under a relevant moon.

Is this, is this, the moment when Doves cry?

Bobbie Kilzer Gogain