Savanna Wegman 

 savanna.wgmn@gmail.com

Tender Orange Blaze 

On the incoming seasons of longing 


An autumn eternal
beckons towards the
Architect’s light.

this room, a lung
a herbalist’s warmest sunned
cradle.

The warmth sprawls on
handwritten field notes,
on ripened light, freckled light,
light through veils, light between
tongues, and kisses that draw open

those rare breaths, liturgic and
frosting.

Now that temperance found
a dawn, in auburn softness,

Now, that the highest atelier
sends light, straight to the hands -

Masterfully,
begin the surge, above it all -
a thing like creation

When the Artist moves in lakelike curls,
divine prowling,
tip-toeing
a dreaming step -

She is one part cocoon of air
One part field of skyladders
One part reaching, into the gardens above
plucking that fruit

lovers slowly swimming up and up.

One of the worlds, in reaching
- a cabinetry of found
horizons,

300 cave maps for the lost boys,
Paper scrolls stained, language licked with
ancient berries.

She reads primrose ink
in 4 acts of ruthless
abandon,
as if re-sequencing her spine,
each a charting between parted seas,
the ocean’s atrium pulsing
open

a passageway
for this singular beginning
to breed.

Every word, is a step
laden with a weight
so full
Of a new season’s promise.

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