Deep in the sheets,
under the layers of leaf-sweetness, swear

we are weather, we are
birds singing,

a narthex collecting it's keep.

Reaching into the nests, there are hands.

Holding the outcome at the breast,
best undercover, best

dipping into the before moment. 

Silent movement.

A miraculous
oven, the upended trial of strings

bundled live wires

tried to dismiss the commonality,
the substance of belief.

Hibernate? Not in the least.

Spring happens in links
of several chapters scanned and read forever.  

The riddle (translated):

Keep blinking. 
Stop thinking.
Green is a gas ingested by looking. 

Felt spreads out from scrubbing
away at the nightingale's code.

There will be a songbag of pipe cleaners.

Twisting riles the dimmer switch
making forgetting come on.

Tricky knobs
have hostility to off reason

silly sag of a winesac – that blown up bladder –
the season's gauge for ganglion births.

Erupting and gorged
perfect into the bright button, glaring happily. 

The craft is happy.

Nothing strums the fabric into butter
but what's better

stretches the later fear of speech into whipped willingness.

It was morning.  Or spring.

Or any one of those things, who knows?

  It's just that I promised someone we'd start this way.

__

Materia Prima is the primal material the alchemists believed sourced the world.