Window sills

Musk of life is a pheremone trail.
You accept your urge.
Until one day you lose the scent.

Everything flowers, everything blooms, and then wilts stamen-first into a droop of metling flesh.
Everything sexes, and everything secretes, especially the thin membranes near our sense, impressed. Crevices of flesh against the open wind.

Mush of life is a compost pile.
You accept that it must sit and gather heat.
Until one day it turns, to stay living.

Everything moulders, everything teems, and then is set again anew in rotting, with the tumbling of refuse.
Everything living once was dead, and everything dead was living - espcially the wet mulch decaying, pressed. Heel of boot against forest floor.

Much of life is a windowsill.
You accept that it is dirty.
Until one day it is too dirty to stand.

Everything gathers, everything accretes, and then is wiped again with the wet cloth of our will.
Everything hushes, everything breaks, especially the silence like a pane glass, pressed. Heel of palm against flat of back.