the winter air
is crisp
and makes poppies of
freckled cheeks.
my hair is loose
and stuffed into a scarf
that my mother knitted.
i'm climbing
i'm climbing
i'm climbing
and slipping.
and falling.
the ice is beautiful
and she is kind;
but she is cruel to me.
the peak takes me for its own;
i tumble amongst the dead flowers
and blanketed pines.
when i reach the bottom
i gaze into the trees
as they caress the fingers
of the pink sunrise.
he is waiting for me.
that snowy owl
eyes reaching into
my very lungs and ribcage.
"i'm sorry,"
I gasp out.
"it's been awhile."
he looks at me, curious and knowing
all at once.
"oh, but it hasn't.
you may never truly leave
though you tried to abandon
that phantom whose eyes you know lingering within the branches.
we are but whispers of the soil
and echoes of the forest."
YOU ARE READING
Meet Me in the Woods
Poetryassorted poetry inspired by nature, family and the life of a person who spends far too much time in her head. (sexuality, death and decay are alluded to or directly addressed in some of my poems. these poems are marked by "*" in the chapter title.) ...
