The Quiet Mast
When the hush first sparks— skin kindles skin, a struck match in the midnight orchard; sap races, petals burn, hunger sings in the bone. Each heartbeat is a drum that forgets tomorrow. In this bright furnace nothing exists but flame, and even the flame forgets itself. Then the music of weathering: two currents curl into one river, water tasting water, naming itself anew. Morning’s hush fills the house like warm bread; fingers trace a map across shoulders— soft cartography of laughter, salt, and sleep.
Read more here:
https://jeffreyfreeman.me/blog/the-quiet-mast/
#Poetry & Literature #Freemo
When the hush first sparks— skin kindles skin, a struck match in the midnight orchard; sap races, petals burn, hunger sings in the bone. Each heartbeat is a drum that forgets tomorrow. In this bright furnace nothing exists but flame, and even the flame forgets itself. Then the music of weathering: two currents curl into one river, water tasting water, naming itself anew. Morning’s hush fills the house like warm bread; fingers trace a map across shoulders— soft cartography of laughter, salt, and sleep.
Read more here:
https://jeffreyfreeman.me/blog/the-quiet-mast/
#Poetry & Literature #Freemo
