The fruit of my lips
is belly deep,
roots grown
into my toes
from the source,
ripe and bursting
from my middle.
You are sky and all the universe,
the Hand that planted
these stars,
and I am but a sapling
blown cold in earth’s
strong wind.
But still you caress
each of my flowers
like words bursting
through air.
Ericka Clay 
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