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Hello!

Welcome to my blog. I share new writing every Monday. 

Ode To The Winter Blooming Wattle

Here,
alongside the creek, this
above ground vein of gold, 
blooming,
well before the wildflowers begin,

hi-lighter yellow, 
premature pom-poms of spring,
cheering loudly.

Tiny, fluffy, 
tennis balls bounce, 
and receive the leaves' 
polite, whispering applause.

You are delicately moored
in this sea of grey and green
muted leaves,
bobbing on a reproductive breeze,
you hope for a gust
to thrust
you into the wet, flowing
stream.

You neon brothel sign,
unmissable, in the low morning light. 
Acacia's lascivious, golden invitation,
lick me, touch me, rub me.

Opportunistic pollinator, 
you welcome
indiscriminately, 
beetle, bird, wasp or bee,
germinating seedlings, 
the tree-world teenage pregnancies.

Oh winter blooming wattle,  
you fun-run
starting gun
of spring,
dressed like an amused God's electric shock, 
a rio
    carnivale
                  reveler, 
     dancing
samba,
through the winter nunnery.

What This Baby Is Made Of

On Femaleness