What’s the time Mr. Wolf?
I pause and soon
he howls out his answer
head raised to the full Moon.

She soaks up the call and deigns
to translate his ghostly words:
shines them down from her throne
of straggled winterbranch.

I can barely make out the hands,
her voice a translucent apparition,
cast upon the watch face.

There it is: the time.
It is the Witching Hour.

I turn away from the path
through or into dark wood.
Not tonight.

How do you know it’s love?
I wish to split every fruit I eat with him
it is the closest thing to love
when we both share the taste of sweet
flesh.
I want to wake him up to feed him slices
of crisp apples
and soft nectarines. And kiss his mouth
with my sticky mouth.
It is the closest thing to love
I think.

#poetry #corvusrobotica

kittens everywhere
only two
but a mighty herd
a force of nature
ears back
eyes fierce
S-shaped tails
there is tiptoe dancing
a showing of
tiny
ferocity

catnip for everybody
on the house

Poets Farm | حديقة الشعراء's choices:

Writing Exchange

The social network of the future: No ads, no corporate surveillance, ethical design, and decentralization! Own your data with Mastodon!