Inside the rough blanket I lay, rings of silk, skin, flesh and bone: years under a weave of purple bark.
Roots, branches, spread deep into the night, drinking black oxygen from empty corners.
Nothing is missing in those shadows, in the soft covers next to me or the light outside the door.
The emptiness is filled with a buoyant impulse to siphon water and minerals and light through my core.
It is a mysterious heartbeat: a decision to let the soft machinery of life do its work, to not interfere with some idea that it should be different, with some belief in time or loneliness.
They are the same unrest anyways. 
2 comments:
Oh, I love these! The last is my favorite, I think.
hey Alexandra -- I am glad that you are persisting with your adventures in combining text and image. I have wrestled with some of the same issues and come to the same conclusion. I really don't care - it is liberating to do and touches something in me that one or the other alone does not accomplish. I especially like the first image (Language of Branches) - the layering (a favorite aspect) is effective, I like the different scales of the text and the composition -- among other things. Thank you for sharing.
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