A strange stalk in soil sits by the foot
of the mountain, the red clay slick
with pig fat. It is rooted by curling
wooden spires, and will not cease
to tell the wind hello goodbye with
a soft murmur’s ease in a voice
that wraps around seven
plastered columns and ten
sheltered fortnights.

Through threaded gates supine, folds
of wine-stained cloth hold clasps of
tenderness in ivory candelabras hidden
behind shelves of simplicity. Somewhere,
an illuminated manuscript of divine touch
calls cloisters of creation
to mind.

There are the more delicate things:
wide-mouthed containers overflowing
with near forgotten winter tangerines
and flowers plucked like extrinsic languages,
then dropped into wooden basin dreams.
Glass mirrors of shattered equivalence
reflect more than the light which sweeps up

From centuries of wandering, the crumbling
sphere derives a singularity: acceptance. 
Such left-handed rules of priestdom call
for magnitudes beyond the self. Still, we see
in these pensive mirrors the relativity
of empty space.

In the myths, great chariots spin stepsongs
and shoulder silver star spindles. The goddess
sits upon her lotus throne in thickened sleep
and folds herself into ginger root palisades. When
she spits out citrus tea leaves from her bleeding
desire, she leaves nothing but
a crackling seed.

LINDA YE is a high school student in Warren, New Jersey. Her work has been nationally recognized in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and is published or forthcoming in Moledro Magazine and Teen Ink. She serves as editor and president of her school's newspaper and creative writing organization and hopes to spread her love for storytelling and for uncovering histories to more people through her writing.