My blood

My blood is hoofbeats in the Sahara
My blood is the tolling of church bells in Novgorod
My blood is the latching of a prison door
My blood is Venus rising above the moon
My blood is your tears falling on my sunburnt skin
My blood is each snow flake scurrying past the window
Into the probability of its own destiny
My blood is the truth of the rose when
It drops its petals, petulant and wise to
Its persistent immortality
My blood is life even when I forget the
Pure uncontained turbulence of its flow
Cutting a path through timelessness and disbelief
On its way to a sigh