it's july
your fingertips graze against theirs
lazy, late summer sunlight
peeks through the trees
your hair is gold as you climb trees
to reach the sweet crabapples.
the air is wet and soaked and sultry and heavy
and the moon eavesdrops as you
sway to the song of a willow tree.
it's november
the night sky has no stars to hold
no moon to reflect in their eyes.
the fire burned and teemed and consumed
all through the dark night.
flaming logs and broken picture frames
extinguished in the roaring of the river.
you wake up in a pile of ash
screaming.
the air is bitter and cold and unforgiving
blood and ember and soil stain
the early frost.
your lungs do not rise
your heart does not beat.
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.) ...
