Worm moon

We seek winter,
even as the weak sun illuminates the grain of wood

on the table with a pale blue shine,
let our thoughts grow over with weeds,
even as bugs decompose the rich soil 

and warmth returns to bake dreams into the fertile substrate.
Tendrils rise, grasping surfaces, as the emaciated worm moon

fills its belly with rich nitrate and phosphates,
weaving between dream lines insects scrawl on woodchips
fragments of dreams and poetry,
more fragmented with each generation.

We dream in darkness, underground,
wiggling towards warmth
eating our way out of this comfort,
leaving packed moisture
for the barest hint of light,
following thought passageways to the ground break

where the sun stains our minds with terrifying revelations of color.

Sun baby in the moonlight

nestled in the bosom of darkness. 

These winter moons know the steady pulse of my earthen thoughts.

We seek the comfort of darkness, 

even in light, 

desire to curl up 

a while longer.