I’m traveling toward the hot spot,
the primordial volcano.
something you’ve found if you made it this far:
I’m kind of dark but I mean well;
I can offer the distraction of light while we inch
toward the predictable consuming center.
toward a thirsty crust, a brain
cave. this is the sort of place where one plugged
master vent blows the whole thing, releasing (time and pressure and ?).
In my own time, I crack open, and after a rocky spell, flowers and fruits birth on my surface.
now I am ready to provide the night shelf
for creatures of the valley, grow pitchy bark, marigolds,
and spaces between flowers.
spiders with jewel encrusted bits on their backs step multiple feet on carpets
of flowers, a petal’s swan song. I can say now:
not a shred of decorative business goes without purpose
as I pluck fruit from a forest of flies,
brush and rinse the earth from my food.
I’ll do all I can to hold onto this spring season
like the private cherry tree I glimpse from afar.
I’ve a need to excise internal heatpain,
by rolling on, forever inching toward the hot spot, the all-consuming
center, how to keep to spring?
how to keep on birthing life?
[Phylinda Moore lives in Philadelphia. Her book, Herculaneum’s Fortune (Anaphora Literary Press) examines how Herculaneum and Pompeii’s destruction and excavation offer insight to our experience with chaos, loss, and transition. Recent journal publications include: Punchnel’s, Words and Images, Philadelphia Stories, and Zymbol. For more poetry please visit her website, phylindamoore.com.]