She lay with Heaven and bore deep-swirling Oceanus.” Hesiod’s Theogony
I’m a spring weed, vines
repined by frosty season
but now they’re creeping,
and dirty despair buried me,
fantasies of hard shoots
and double D leaves, all
thawed by shifting reason.
My germination is defeating.
I make myself into a seed
curled over, cold snap slaps
soften my shell, the protective coat
receding. I make-believe the embryo
inside me has all it needs,
planted by a watery stream
of last night’s satin sheets.
If I hold still, will his gibberellin
stand me straight
push me into heaven?
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Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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