i. Tree Latches
The latches come down
the hill,
each falling separate
from the other,
spindled among
the breeze-born.
The life of a latch
is to be seeded
back in the earth,
light as a thumb
slipped half-under
running creek water.
And this is paradise,
this spilling
of seeds downhill.
Under the amber-light,
the calm birthing –
the gust and scatter
where the latches fall.
ii. Whirlybirds
Little pink
fans
spill from
the tree
limbs,
gathering
below,
like tornoff
mosquito
wings,
like motes
passing
windowpanes.
iii. Hitchhikers
Out of branches,
the hitchhikers
sail into the
grass.
Steady as fishhooks,
they remain
stillborn,
waiting
to seed
their sense
of resurrection
off the backs
of passing beasts.
–Matthew Haughton,
Bee-coursing Box
Accents Publishing
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