Any frozen spirit
The tea-coloured soil is stiff, dry that giving-up line on the faded myth of spring I wake it with fork and fingers, twist the deeper dark out, blinking in the sudden, burnt light. Turning the un-oiled tin of winter upside down - I'm pouring butter potential now, blood colours stir the size of insect buttons. I pull cosmos dusk, ox-eyed daisy seed futures down from the borders of my cobwebbed mind. My wanting to try was iced by the moon nights, you are the words I release with the trowel for the ladybird to land on, the moth, any frozen spirit, needing to hear flowers after the silent cold. C. LJ Ireton 2025