overwinter raze in the woodland of your eyes, bellflowers and bee balm build aperture and diaphragm from serrated leaves, masking the milk that we are, stirred by the mouths of moths with parchment paper forewings. all the good words are in the unspent ink that lines the lips of the cruelest months we've known. we kiss each other clean to cook this homestead from the inside out. 220218 what's it to you? who go blather from