Hollow

In her quieter moments,
When her daily lovers are asleep
Or she has cast them aside for
The solitude she needs to cast
Her spells on them and the
World, she leans against
The trunk of the closest tree,
Closes her eyes, and looks into
Herself. She watches the mating
That comes from her perpetual,
Sees the hollow that will soon be
Filled with next year’s harvest,
Though even she doesn’t know
Whose it will be, and that’s the
Beauty of it, because that knowledge
Would be dangerous, especially to
The soon-to-be-dead who sleep
Until she wakes them with her
Need for more. She breathes.

R 29/11/2023 20:18