“The Worm Moon gets its name from the earthworms that come out when the soil warms up. The worms provide food for birds and other animals.”

Silk milk:

Beckoning in the rich velvet of the night, 

It satisfies the midnight cravings

Of those who sleep in earthly blankets.

 

The beams whisper,

Are you not tired of longing?

Come out to see your own shadow.

 

The promise of light turns

Each of their 10 hearts into tiny furnaces

Stirring and writhing to the surface.

 

The winds whisper,

I will caress you with cool hands;

Furnaces cannot burn forever. 

 

They feel their hearts fall out of synchronicity,

Steaming and thumping with warmth.

Surely, there is salvation where words are sweet.

 

Still sleepy:

Pushing past millions of granules of dirt,

But some manage to stick –

Mementos for the memorials to come.

 

As they propel toward the horizon,

They discern shapes and colors they’ve never seen

The whispers grow louder now

The whispers chirp and rustle now

The whispers are real now.

 

It’s cold above –

Soil that was once baggage

Is now their sole source of insulation.

 

Awoken by massacre,

Now indefinitely slumbering. 

 

Quiet –

As innocence sleeps within each of their 10 hearts.