Down by the concrete river, the spirits arise from patches of datura where the spiral that became a pinwheel stretches itself again to take on the form of ghostly plant emanations pollinated by the consciousness of any wanderer who lingers long enough for the vegetal spirits to unfurl their psychoactive shapeshifting tendrils and guide the awareness toward the unity of all things through the merging of forms and the collective existence of iterative semblances.
For some reason I cannot read your whole poem. I donāt know if this is because you maybe using the block editor, also words are broken in the middle to the second line.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you for letting me know!
LikeLike
Youāre welcome.
LikeLiked by 1 person
ššš
LikeLike
I’ve never looked at datura in quite this way. Mostly, it grows wild all over the place where I live. Except for the huge and pretty white flowers, most people think of it as a weed. Of course, we are all careful to wear gloves and dust masks while eliminating it from our yards. All that aside, I really liked your poem. š
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you Dianne! I heard that Georgia OāKeefe whose paintings of it are sublime let it grow all over her property in New Mexico. ššš
LikeLike
These are fascinating!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks! ššš
LikeLiked by 1 person