| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| II. I miss the moon; how she held my body and pulled my insides to her rhythm like the tides roll to and from shore. I miss the call of her voice, unnoticed before when months passed by, shaping me into mother. I think if I call to her softly, and lie waiting in darkness for her fingertips to find and touch me again, we can get reaquainted and mother nature might set back in motion the stir of cells communicating science and wonder once more. |
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