elise.writer

I lay them in a mandala, the shards of glass

I pull from my back, one by one.  I let them

scar over, and I surround the mandala

in peonies, because the pain was not for nothing

Amber leaves cling
To umber trees reaching
Frayed roots deep into the ground.
They've told you time
And time again, "autumn is the season
Of the dead.
Green leaves rusting, flowers
Dusting over till the pink

Gazing out, Quiet

Is the touch of a sunbeam on my shoulder

The familiar crême shade of

Thursday morning pumpkin spice lattes

Parallels the clouds’

Color, tide’s scampering in and out,