little one, i am always using that word – little. little piles of tree branches, coddled and curdled in cracked open sunlight. winter, winter, keep tapdancing your wilderness. news, the news, isn’t it old by now? isn’t it getting old by now – the new news we knew we already knew?
little days…warm little seedlings, polish your skins and dust off your roots, let’s grow, let’s go, let’s know something more new than the news of the day. of the whistle wolf whimper of a world tuned in. to nonsense, to no-sense, to radioactive instants. i am tired, i say, of the news no longer being newsworthy, but rather, a nuclear fury.