Alessandra G.

Done with the motion of the evening,
Our eyes settle.
Not glazed, nor, tired.
Eager. For the spark to pull us toward the far corners of the woods.
To flash before us, a picky portion of the tree that lies behind it.

An unforgiving ebony green, patiently waiting on the ground.
Tender hands pull it from its somber existence, a leaf; a diamond in the rough
In its richness, its vivid veins, sparking its surface.

I sit there bitterly, stung by the fact that I am buckled in between Teta and Mama, and my eyesight, no matter how I contort my head, stretches no further than the musty car. I’m stuck among my futile consolations. But the sky is there.

Drying out the shine to teeth and tongue,
The wind rips the words from my mouth.
Compelling, and all-powerful, it jumbles them to a blur of what was spoken. 
Far deafened, by the blaring that carelessly drags them through time.