motions

ascending and descending
stairways where truth lies
as if it were fact

rising and falling
in the notes of a madrigal
no-one will ever sing for love

expanding and contracting
tiny explosions of earth
bloom life in air

and the ebb and flood
of blood and iron in the flesh
hollows out our broken beauty

we are both water and flame
translucent and insubstantial
flowing, surrounding, engulfing

moving or still
we are all or nothing
in the processes of change

© BH, 2026

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Somewhere in this, fragments hide after being resurrected from a note probably a decade old. This note was my Bradbury list, named for Ray B, who suggested that building tangentially connected lists could lead us to inventive writing.

Or is it, as I suppose, that words gestate and mutate when left alone too long? Either that, or the mind that seeds them alters their meaning without being truly aware of it…