Literary Vegan

In the ever-growing, ever-giving  green pearl butterfly buds  on leaves after the snow, in the rose burst through the night-line; the white-black frost-hold about to be painted bloom-bee yellow, in the hop-sing of the dawn birds — a morning wing wake-up pink melody prayer that filters through the forest,  sifts into sea bubbles, and rustles into a lullaby to be lifted from water wind, is the always-song. Gaze upon the milk-flower in the pebbles grown one, little one. Listen to thin blush drum of each standing petal.  LJ Ireton, 2025

I saw a seagull flying through the snow — a poem sounded,  soft bellied,  ready to land. C. LJ Ireton, 2025

The blood-berry tree, no leaves is full of parakeets; pick and grip red to red beak. I run past, repeating limbs underneath to distract myself from dreams  I haven't achieved yet, but they — they powder green scream it.  LJ Ireton, 2025

At midnight, I admired the beaded blue spiral  of Christmas tree  as a light-dancing sparkle of ice, without the sting of cold. By morning, the high silver star  was lined with lace too, shimmering from a spider with angel aspirations who climbed, inspired, in the warm.  C. LJ Ireton, 2025

Six days till solstice  drops like marbles string the sycamore tree upside-down mirror beads stud orange leaves decorations to ease the shortest light hung by no-one.  C. LJ Ireton, 2025

Night-shrugging the bags from my shoulders, the worst part walking is the nearly home but not — when I turn the street corner  and stranger, I am stilled by the cascade of electric stars across your garden trees, turning my evening gingerbread and this whole dark December  to dotted lights.  C. LJ Ireton, 2025