blue, then green she liquors daises with
a maker's firm hand. a poodle at her feet
sniffs circle eights into dust and pollen for
his moment's worship. ah, folly.

she paints skies against the sky, as
if conspiring how oceans should fade into
thunderstorms. the cyclical nature
of her moods.

whisking brushes against Earth's canvas,
she wishes dew drops, reigns plenitude
upon her wounds. siphons minerals from
her veins and solemnly feeds her prodigal

named industry.