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.
Can it be nothing more than new life?
Bounding through marshes
And clover
And buttercup
And moss
And underneath that moss
Death
Will we ever stop
Forming gaps for young children to fall through,
Teetering on the edge– –swinging their legs.
My grandmother's body slowly shifts into the rock, weaving into the dead texture. Eyes faded and grey, seeing more than I will ever know, and yet nothing at all.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.