April snow. / God is waiting in the garden. / Slow as a blush,
snow shifts and settles on God. / On God’s bouquet. / The trees are white nerve nets.
“There is a black place inside me. It can be reached and perhaps it can consume. But it is not a hive. The black place inside me is mine. I found that it could be filled of architecture and light, water and ancestor, o, things that make me bow-to.”
Lisa Marie Basile | Nympholepsy