Husk.
Dry, brittle…
Dust.
A swirling mess
of crushed
leaves and dried flowers,
pressed
against the screen
that protects me
from desiccated things
that lurk in the desert’s
glimmering mirage-sheen.
Heart and mind,
crushed,
pressed by stones,
so that the ichor-ink drips
into the sand
where it dries
and is left unknown.
No flower grows
in the spaces
where the rain showers
once flowed.
But, strong roots hold,
eternal, on the buried bones
of the desiccated me,
lurking where all
of my words are stowed.
I’m like a weed.
I’m never really gone,
and, as if,
forever-on,
from this seed,
my poetry rose.
©️ Obol, 2019.
A month of cuts has become a year of scars.
I was missing your poetry…. what a perfect one to come back to.
Thank you, Tara. I’m happy to be feeling it again and I missed your work, too.