Any frozen spirit

By -
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

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