Foot tracks are all that remain.
Gaia has yet to notice our thievery.
Stained, are our, lavender lips.
Empty reed baskets lay ransacked.
Friends, as we, frolic in floral sundresses.
The bottom seams are ripped, ragged,
And raw, painted from ancient
Grass brush strokes.
Crisscrossed, we sit, beneath the outstretched arms
of a mother maple. Dandelions, we had knotted
In perfect succession, lay near.
Bow before Father Sun.
Allow me to crown us Queens.
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YOU ARE READING
Trans Corpus
PoetryA composition of poetry I wrote/am writing in reflection of my transition. Thank you! -Sylvie
