And your dark, knotted hair falls,
trailing along and settling
in the crevice of collarbone,
ravine of spine,
and depth of heart.
Curling like the faintest
of hollowed vines,
back around the trunk of you –
trailing into soul
and settling
at the roots.
Posted in response to the challenge Spring: Writing Contest.
We stood at the entrance of a new age.
Past a garden of all we had ever known,
We found the gate.
Past what we were meant to know and created to be.
She wrote until her fingers carved groves in the silence and spoiled the blankness before. Then, she turned to each surface left unwrote and sang. The birch trees wept as she tore back the bark to reveal stories beneath.
I await you in the open grass–
The rolling plains roam my mind
Dark-swept winds ride the horizon–
Damp with the promises you left unanswered
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.