ravens in her hair.
My muse flew north for the weekend. I dreamt about him, the way that she does when her hair stirs and her bluebird sings.
Dreams are like fiction.
What’s greater than fiction?
Is sharing reality like sitting naked?
Is reality a dream shared by many?
Is fiction the weed in the garden?
I believe in him too--
the God of weeds.
The painting above is by Jaroslaw Kukowski. Find him here.