I would rather be tethered by a pathetic fallacy than an excellent one.
I look into the plant and see myself. When the plant looks into me, what does it see?
the once-physical plant appeared to me as smoke
a small shrub, wiry and sun-hardened
now dense black-gray smoke
an exhalation of the bitter ground
each spine, each hair, each leaf contoured with dark fumes
its flowers blown a thick white vapour
I could feel the roots of its spirit.
a figurine with a sown field pattern
you see, but the field feels
lady of the open field
bitter grass in the field
it is Summereve, and my mind is leafmeal