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"...in spring, the most delicate feathery yellow of plumes and plumes and plumes and trees and bushes of wattle, as if angels had flown right down out of the softest gold regions of heaven to settle here, in the Australian bush."

— D. H. Lawrence, Kangaroo

Paraboloid totems of evergreen hope, upside down,
Sparkling white trinkets, sparkling white dears;
‘What do we need to do now?’
You ask;
I got my husband’s winged blue stone gift around my neck, a dragonfly,
Isn’t my green dress an ornamental kingly shroud?


Both stormy and luminous, the cuts on my arms are still caked in dried blood,
You are sad: your heart bleeds into mine with a bit of emerald dust and ruby red sunrises;
The Doctor is the Rose; I am the Flame
You are all marble, Plato, self-contained,
I am grotesque, decaying, Lilith-born,
My scars are trim poodles


Whose slightly wolfish eyes
Will bleed a blazing cornucopia of yellow wattle sprigs;
Doctor, your heart is a gold mine and joyous as Spring

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