Somewhere a Melody

2012-02-22T07:40:00.000-08:00

A lenten "adieu" till Easter friends :0)
xx

Van Gogh's Sunflowers

2012-02-21T10:52:00.000-08:00

The heavenly Jerusalem
of those sunflowers

pulled as weeds
from the edge

of sallow corn
by a child’s hand.

Worked from clay,
thick paint,

the soil and oil, the sweat,
of lost years and turpentine tears.

Earth’s tempera, embedded
like a memory

of Eden along each forsaken,
yellowed sinew,

within the soul
of every blackened seed.

Fodder for crows
and the laughter of starlings.

But you know when the birds take flight
the seeds go with them

to distant fields beyond
the curve

and sway
of the reapers scythe,

till a whole world
brings forth their gold.

Sharing with D'Verse

...and this cause it's just beautiful

Casting Lines in Shallow Streams

2012-02-14T10:33:00.003-08:00

Scuttle of a crab

in the bottom of the bucket.

The stark slate rooftops

by the time we got home.

Low wattage orange lamp,

peeled, segmented and pithy.

You turning pages yellow

as an upturned root.

The smell of soil and disappointment;

Your tobacco stained fingers.

The rain scudded sky.

Racing on the Telly.

Hope riding on a formula.

Its ticket, swaddled up your sleeve.

Roads scuffed ragged

with broken masts of sodden grass.

Each one leading,

to the pub as the stars

steeped in blue waters.

In shallows, I dreamed.

shared with D'Verse

Sunlight in a City Street

2012-02-07T11:18:00.000-08:00

Lucent membrane

spliced from another world

shed your skin across

the puck marked city

like a Polaroid snapshot of paradise.

Briefly, we may dream a little

beneath your clinging cellophane

as if still in the womb

where tides do not ebb

away late afternoon.

Suddenly we can sleep a little

and smile at our children more,

in this brief eclipse there is no ticket

to punch

or expectation

to meet

It doesn't matter

if our clothes are clean

For all is baptized holy

in your hallowed stream.

Oh, blameless yellow

pollen

soak coarse open pores

of beaten street

in healing balm!

Swaddle us

in your stainless, linen sheets.

Your simplicity blesses

the profane,

anoints

the fallen,

warms

all that is cold.

Well spring of anther upon stamen

fertilize the ovule of barren hopes

till felled stumps

swell abundant with ripe fruit!

Old women of narrow

enclaves’ rest

their relentless work

upon their knee

and close their eyes,

as you fall like a sigh

through sieves

of aching skin.

Your kiss

makes them feel

young again.

Beneath your indulgent gaze

children paddle

in dappled gravel

as if it were the brink

of an immense ocean.

Scuttling like crabs

from rolling wave

to concrete shore

I see

your splintered

shards seed

and blossom

briefly

beneath their feet.

Sharing with D'Verse

From Allegro

2012-02-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

The day wanes, I strum broken chord from fret,
blood begins to flow back into my fingers.

Taut strings refract negative space,
hollowed womb waters tremble with birth pains.

Sound rebounds like a glimmer of sunlight, from a fallow field,
greener since the ploughing ceased.

Whispering the world is a bridge, pass over it,
But build no house upon it.

Song shuttles back and forth weaving a one piece tunic,
I touch the hem and am healed.

This music is an old Mongolian woman feeding me soup,
telling me stories, ladeling prayer beads from work worn hands.

Grey armies collect like silt at the mountain brink.
She simply unravels the beams the goat hide and the prayer mat as she always has

and they fall to their knees prostrate.

Inspired by Tomas Transtromers "Allegro"

Allegro

After a black day, I play Haydn,
and feel a little warmth in my hands.

The keys are ready, Kind hammers fall,
The sound is spirited, green, and full of silence.

The sound says that freedom exsists,
and someone pays no taxes to Cesar.

I shove my hands in my haydnpockets,
and act like a man who is calm about it all.

I raise my haydnflag. The signal is:
"We do not surrender. But want peace."

The music is a house of glass standing on a slope;
rocks are flying, rocks are rolling.

The rocks roll straight through the house
but every pane of glass is still whole.

Sharing with d'Verse
& The Poetry Palace

From the mountain to the Favela

2012-02-01T08:48:00.000-08:00

Hope hollers, yellow from a Favela matchbox

dispossessed with the raw tinder, of desiccated

dreams, here the smallest spark can ignite the dampest surface

But no flame can take hold without oxygen,

so mute darkness returns with solemnity of ritual.

Strands of trees stand like accusations

emaciated ruins of forest and the Yanomami chant

peddled by tour operators that sear clean

the surfaces of ever narrowing streets

where every road only ever leads to a dead end.

Winding round corrugated panels,

Wriggling like a nonchalant girl

out of the arms of a pushy boy,

tapering like thread veins around genuflecting buildings

that have long fallen prostrate in sackcloth and ashes.

Above them Christ the redeemer stands

platinum and aloof as a diamond

against the noonday

heat that wilts the strength of men

into sinews of flailing grass.

Immutable as the steely

lattice work of banks

and hotels that rise

to meet him like good, clean parishioners

with fat envelopes for the offertory basket.

He gazes serene, arms unburdened

by the weight of gravity upon flesh and bone.

His embrace is held aloft by the scaffolding of stone

that can only unmoving, embrace all without bias

and will find offence neither in excess or poverty.

Great slab of mottled land, pockmarked with

open pores that absorb a thousand

unnamed footsteps a minute,

spreading out like the solidified

lava of a sleeping volcano .

Is he really that distant and detached from your grieving?

Mast of the bay, flag of the conquistador?

Patient and sympathetic as charity pedlars

who employ Favela girls to wash their clothes

so they can do the important work.

This thin skinned shin

of earth shimmers like a pulsing beat.

Heat breaks the wings

of young birds and disturbs

the child’s sleep.

Shards of light

cauterise septic

open sewer hemmed streets.

Transfiguring a grimy crust that chrysalises

a thousand waiting dreams,

I find Jesus in Favela

washing the feet of the mountain.

than all eternity

2012-01-31T12:08:00.000-08:00

I found roots in your eyes
in your voice the threads that could weave a life
from the loom of my bare hands

Fragments of crockery and a handful
of earth was all you had
to work with

Somehow you wrought a garden.
"Aren't all garden's resurrected from the dirt?"
You'd say, but most of all

you said, "it's yours to wander in."
"Breathe the fragrance
that is born

of crushed leaf and tender bloom."
Only then, I knew how love exchanges physicality
for the briefest essence

of what makes the ephemeral,
the transitory, the slightest of lives
more precious
.............................. j j
than
all
eternity.

For Tani
shared with D'Verse

There is no Death

2012-01-29T15:23:00.000-08:00

Apples bake slow in a cinnamon fire,

sweet musk steeps

the house in hearth warmth,

wrapping a soul in cotton dishcloth

placing it close to its kin,

in thin wicker baskets brimming
anticipation.

Little garden spiders spin

a silent world of life within a world of life.

Sycamore leaves fall.

Earth swells with their secret
Spring.
Glimmering gold within

a fragile skin.

And the secret that exhales upon their breath.

There is no death.

A Deep Shade of Autumn

2012-01-29T15:14:00.000-08:00

Leaves of gold
stripped to the sinew
sauntering brown
tatted lace curtains
I remember one autumn
the sun set early
before the first bird caught
it's breath.

Peel back
the blind bark
run your eyes
along it's damp
underside the part

that soaks up darkness
like a child
soaks up a dream from night,
that is where you will be growing

Stronger, clearer, truer, softer.

Yes,
all colours
are absorbed
by that
deep shade
of earth
for a while.

razor clam

2012-01-29T15:07:00.000-08:00

fossilized feather

serrated, shard sunk in silt

saline rinsed and strained
to a violent shape

pregnant with soft
tremoring flesh

a piece of starched

crisp paper white

washed and anonymous

pearl laqured marble

fractured under foot

a cupped glass of

hard transparency

or tundra of luminosity?

I dig through umbra

to find your

tender

heart.

I am the song of an untouched forest

2012-01-28T03:22:00.000-08:00

Why are we
always restless,
ever seeking
the one word
that can heal

the cloth
that can cover

the morning light
that will waken

A poem
is a secret
beneath the layers of bare fabric,
skin thin grasses
creases of our memory
it irrigates the dry places
of our lonliness
the waterless furrows
of our longing
to be loved for who we are
no more, no less

It says I am here
and so are you

buried in the

split wood
of your laquared table,
the bleached grain
in your sliced white
bread, I breathe
my life out
in even the shallowest
streams, I'm not
the words or chapters
of a book
but the pulped
extract of the tree
that still trembles
within it's leaves.

I am the song
of an untouched forest
a mountain orchid
that blooms unseen
like a prayer flag
across the weathered bark
of God's hand.

Sometimes I pray...

2012-01-10T11:38:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I pray
the hymn of a church
upon a hill
may meet with me here
on the curb of the street, where rain
funnels cigarette butts into gutters.

A simple steeple
sharp as a raven's beak
against the sky.
Leading us complex city folk to follow the line
beyond it’s hard stop,
to a deeper, broader well.

White bonneted woman.
Black buttoned man.
Calico hems heavier than the wind.
May I stand

beneath the wide brims
and the silence?

Wrapped within
swaddling bands
of prayer rising
like well kneaded dough
measures of yeast
fermenting slow

my soul

soar mountain high
sink valley deep

where holy waters pool
and tremor with
the melody of
my thousand unsung hymns.

hoping to be able to find some breaths of time to write again and read some beautiful poetry this new year...
my beautiful, but busy five girls and christmas have kept my hands quite full recently :)

linking with D'Verse tonight!

a new year wish

2012-01-04T11:31:00.000-08:00

firm like the inner circle of a great tree
consolidate with the scars of a faith
that has born fruit

simple as a single moment
in the eye of a child,
an unscaled note, an undrawn line

quiet as a star in a coal black sky,
and the one who seeks it,
with the stilness to hear it

warm as the woven blanket
of a love that covers your winter earth
till the blossoms bloom

If only I may grow: firmer, simpler, quieter, warmer.
~Dag Hammarskjold

This too shall pass

2011-12-14T07:07:00.000-08:00

I open my mouth
clouds gather
no sound emanates.

Each word is a falling leaf
undisturbed
by the ground.

I lie in the forest
for days, decades,
centuries, millenniums.

One day the thin assonance
of mourning
will solidify

into something
that can hold water,
something that speaks

sings.

Out of the dark
like a tendril
of vapour, the hoof print

of a lone deer crossing glades
of uncurled fern
and autumn debris

stacked like a pyre
of plates on a sink or
dendrites hanging on a thread of light.

We are just like
particles
of a poem;

paradoxical
constant
ephemeral

dispersing
falling
reassembling

eternally
e
e
seeking

balance

cadence

.............................

beauty

.................................................

..meaning

in the movement

The Goat Herder

2011-11-22T07:05:00.000-08:00

The dim glow

of her skin

becomes a kneaded crust

moistening beneath

buttery prayer lamps.

It is scored

with the hollow veins

of skeletal leaves

and roots drawn

from baked earthern ovens

and fragments of cooling mantle.

A welling bloom

the iris of her eye.

It's blue scale

shines brighter

for the dark sky waxing

within and around it.

It is both a diamond

sunk in coal

and the gaslight

that grasps it.

When she herds

the goats her voice

becomes a falling feather

or snowflakes clustering

in gasps of cirrus

which form a transparent membrane

that covers the sky

with the milk of a cataract.

Swells of luminosity

churn the earth

and carve rivets

through the land with currents,

almost as if water flowed

there once.

The soil curdles

beneath the soles

of her feet, and the soul

of her world, the sun,

rises thin as whey,

lean and bare,

becoming the topography

of her skin

stretched over a lifetime

of joy and grief.

It’s landscape

brought into relief

by an offering

of light.

sharing with D'Verse

template switch

2011-11-20T00:21:00.000-08:00

just posting to say I've switiched back to my old template because a lot of people said they were having problems with my old site... hope this one works a little better :)

Fi

2011-11-15T19:53:00.000-08:00

Your eyes are the last thought of a bird on the brink
of the bough and the silence before flight.

Your hair catches like a spark on the tinder
of my soul, it warms the cloth of my skin.

I fold the corner curve of your smile inside
my pocket like it's the single most beautiful word ever uttered,

it's cadence undulates a landscape both foreign and known,
I am gathered up in vastness, green hills roll out endlessly within me.

You are the prayer I once prayed as a child.
You are the song I wrote long before I could write.

I trace your movements and your music
and thread each single note upon strings of connective tissue,

tendons of memory, the roll of your rrr's down grassy falls
and the unbroken, fearless child you returned to me intact.

I thank you my girl child, the beautiful mess
you leave in your wake -thanks you,

the felt tip forests, the scribbled dresses -
thank you too!

The stones that hatched into eggs in the warmth
of your palm sing your praises at dawn!

The heart of your face cupped in mine,
light and deep as truth

reflects in the muddy puddles of my eyes,
running them clear again.

Shared with D'Verse
gooseberry garden
and imperfect prose

Avett Brother's Head Full of Doubt

2011-11-13T10:54:00.000-08:00

magpie 91

2011-11-13T08:36:00.000-08:00

Singing low like mist
your porcelain limbs
awkward as wooden chairs

rocking lullabies upon frostbitten
winter grass that lilts and tilts
with the surface of a brisk sea's shallow applause

the sound of white sheets
stranded in the first morning light
before the wedding guests arrive

beats like calico moth wings
with the memory of dance steps
and the correct positioning of feet.

the sound of wrapping torn from gifts
the unraveling of lists, like a satin veil
borrowed, new, old, now blue

the sound is the merry go round of appraisal
unwinding inside a plastic bubble
wrap but if we burst it now...

What will be the sound?

linking to magpie tales

Prose, Poetry and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

2011-11-10T12:16:00.000-08:00

The prose

"There's a tree that grows in Brooklyn. Some people call it the Tree of Heaven. No matter where its seed falls, it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky. It grows in boarded up plots and out of neglected rubbish heaps. It grows up out of cellar gratings. It is the only tree that grows out of cement. It grows lushly ... survives without sun, water and seemingly without earth. It would be considered beautiful except that there are too many of it."

Excerpted from "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" by Betty Smith.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Becomes a poem

There's a tree that grows in Brooklyn.
Some people call it the Tree of Heaven.

No matter where its seed falls,
it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky.

It grows in boarded up plots
and out of neglected rubbish heaps.

It grows up out of cellar gratings.
It is the only tree that grows out of cement.

It grows lushly ...
survives without sun, water

and seemingly without earth.
It would be considered beautiful

except that there are too many of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Interpretation

when i let myself see only lack...
space concaves beneath a half starved gaze

The sky becomes a ceiling, sealing tight and sinking low
i have to get down on my knees to breathe.

down here even the honey gold sun in the sanguine sky
hovers like a bee drunk with the nectar of another world

blinking luminous, technicolour tears over a roll of black and white film, unprocessed negatives of memory rinsed clean like chalk off a rain soaked sidewalk

sometimes i find myself closing my eyes when they stop me from seeing the hope
of a city tree climbing out of its concrete mire

the door to the soul bores holes in the steely ground
it calls the cracked pavement sacred, the wild flowers that litter it, holy

when i walk this path i walk barefoot
beneath the soles of my feet, dreams gleam like pebbles under the stream's still, cool currents

broken stones overturn to soft grass dirt and dust to blossom and pollen
tomorrow flowers will bloom here

Linking up with D'Verse tonight.

Spectrum

2011-11-05T14:24:00.000-07:00

Loneliness is a pale peeling wallpaper, nearly a colour. The dampness of a park bench in winter. Undertones of sparse conversation.

Joy is a yellow daffodil, the shining bulb of a child's first laugh, an orb of fritillary, refracting pollen from sunlight.

Hope is the colour of earth, lacerated bark, loam, hummus, root and leaf mould.
Without it nothing can grow.

Peace is an ambiguous colour, illusive and only rarely achieved in a perfectly balanced mix of pigments and paradox.

Discontent palette knifes oily furrows through blank canvas. Untempered pastes and emulsions. Ever digging through umbra to find luminosity.

Sorrow is gray, nearly black as grief but barer somehow, a shade the less, bereft of a mourning veil to hide blemish. It prays for transparency. But remains the sleep of rain, unshod, half conscious,obscure, obtuse. Opaque as mist over waves.

Shame is the clash of orange and pink. Vomit on the carpet and the antibac that cleans it up.

Pride is a plaster cast of whitewash that hides the multicoloured graffiti of our interconnecting undergrounds'.

Gentleness is a the plain white garter stitched blanket you made to fit my crib.

Love is a prism that contains whole spectrum. A little sun, a little rain and at the foot of it's arc a pot of pure gold.

linking with D'Verse

imagecredit

Granny's Garden

2011-11-04T06:30:00.000-07:00

Granny grew her garden wild

Flowers were lettuces

gone to seed

“a pyre for the incinerator”

some said once she was gone

mistaking nest feathers for broken wings

Linking up with monkeyman's 160

Your Hands

2011-11-03T13:15:00.000-07:00

Between your hands there are deserts and well springs

And the one who dreams such places into being.

All water flows from these cupped palms and

When faced with their reflections within it, the stars tremble.

All beings are washed down to their truth there.

Naked elements passing through bare fingers,

The first wing beating breath to the last strum,

Splintering surface tension into a thousand different melodies,

But here is the real secret,

Without your hands none of this would exist.

linking to D'Verse

Shades of Gray

2011-11-02T02:16:00.001-07:00

We shared the same slim turf of time

upon this earth, between

1979 and 2011, my birth and his death.

The overlapping 32 years were lived

along the same geographical latitudes,

the same stroke of the cartographer’s pen,

both anonymous, both born of billions

upon billions of years of intricate partnerships

that laid down the blueprints for such infinitely

insecure tenancies of time.

He spent most of those years hulling out doorways.

Mine was spent filling empty trenches

dug by a Father still hiding from enemy and combat.

“They choose to live on the streets,

most of them don’t want to work”

My Mother used to say.

Locked out of the house to pace brittle winter concrete

aged 7 showed me otherwise.

I sluiced through the kitchen window

to unlatch the door, let her in.

The panhandler of the streets has been dead two weeks now,

so I finally tap him

on to a plush cushioned keypad,

and into another life form,

one that is sterile, orderly, solvent,

one that he never knew or will know.

In this penthouse of perspective and hindsight

surfaces are constantly polished, eroded, reduced to

elegant, symmetrical formulas, that keep chaos and contradiction

behind doubled glazed, empirical givens.

Anomalies are discarded to sleep out among the elements

and under the incalculable stars,

untidy and unseemly as landfill debris.

But here on the precise clarity of a refreshed page

where a perfectly manicured Eden, pallid and innocent

may be recreated regularly from billions upon billions of intricate connections.

Here spliced sheets of rootless, branchless trees are heavy with half bitten apples.

There is one unelected dictator and two advisors to the republic,

spell check and grammar check who never enter into negotiations.

Ambiguity only lies between the lines,

no, signs of natural decay perforate the page, except in appropriate metaphor

and the odd residually unsentimental simile.

Yet while I write, his resting place remains the loam

and the murmuring shuffling thoughts of regular commuters and town shoppers

who still sidestep his old patch and with it their own un-dug graves.

His dog’s glancing, searching eye.

The empty doorway,

The nod of a policeman, who passes it,

The strange apathy which grows

from powerlessness.

Blunt spores of redundancy

dispersing from television screens

Yet finding no moisture to sink root

only brittle blankets of newspaper, their comically mute

emboldened headlines smiling silently like the accusation

of a sad clown, performing his show

through heckles of hate, violence and bloody war,

imploring action from unarmed

and disparate masses,

applying caustic, antiseptically simplistic slogans and sound bites

to every complex problem, every dead baby, every homeless migrant.

Still all things overlap and though we pay our rent,

iron our sheets and fold our pain into the creases of curtains

and the dust along the skirting boards,

we remain anonymous bearers of one another’s emptiness.

Hauling bin liners, pushing trolleys, filling trenches.

If one staves with want the rest will never be satiated with surplus.

There are no dividing lines.

No black or white, only the shades of gray.

Elemental

2011-11-01T08:34:00.000-07:00

Fresh water stream

May I cup a little of your clarity?

Mountain lichen

May I fall in your obscurity?

Pine wood fragrant

May I learn the silence of your loam?

Calloused bark of ancient oak

May I harbor the memory of your berth?

Wild thistle down, swaddled tight in buds

May I benign as the breeze, sing your prayers on?

Stump, root, hummus, shoot

May I grow in darkness too, heart swelling full with fruit?

Stark psalms of burning branches etching charcoal in the sky

May I sooth your barren hands, with the oil of morning light?

May I be coppice for the tinder, wattle for the daub,

The flaxen sheaves for weaving, a windfall for the store?

When winter’s brittle hand waxes clean the land,

I pray to be the felled grass, ephemeral and wan

Never more or less the shade or depth or height or width

Than fragments of the landscape in which I grow and live.

Linking with D'Verse
photos courtesy of my 13 year old daughter and wild artist Emmy!

anonymous

2011-10-30T02:14:00.000-07:00

Social pariah,
thick black liner
gold rimmed fingers
acrylic, extension, concealer
cigarette in one hand, baby
reins tugging on another
it's hard to tell if she's hanging
on a welfare state loophole
or slipknot.
Definition of a failing
system doesn't check
the right criteria
genetically inferior?
Should some people breed?
Daily Mail center fold
women shouldn't be so bold
especially poor ones, fat ones,
ugly ones, old ones,
those living on the dole
Put her in the factory line
6 days a week for the rest of her life
a fair trade for the squirming bait
on the end of a politician's poverty line
heaving plastic
bags strapped
on pushchairs
up six flights
of stairs
to a flat
with no
garden,
lounge just
big enough
for a telly
and surround sound
concrete, where the only green
is the weeds that seep
through cracks
and those subliminal lines
that divide us.
From the balcony
there is no horizon
from the stairwell only
crumbs,
leftovers of muted sun
for when it sinks,
this is where it dwells
but not the architects
who stylishly design
shoe boxes into houses
tidied away from the rest
of us in laminated folders
nor the welfare reformers
who live in leafy suburbs
living off reductions
in numbers, multiples lost
to divisions
and congratulate themselves
for putting the young mother
out to clean floors for food stamps
while her 6 week old baby
rocks her days
away in a dozen
different arms
so when she yells
because there's nothing
else to say
or smokes, or spends
the extras
on her nails,
I won't stare, or judge, or smile
smug
and satisfied
with my own
holy, hollow wholesomeness
and the wealth of responsible choices that
come with surplus
not deprivation.

linking to Poets United

Waxing, Waning

2011-10-30T01:14:00.000-07:00

cuticle

an empty shell

curled in a dark loam nest

crescent thin

slither of reflected

light

residual warmth

of a summer

memory

rinsed in tepid

shallows, tremulous

feedback

linking up with monkeyman's 160 challenge

conversation between a bird and the sky

2011-10-29T12:18:00.000-07:00

I was a bird, I'd flit
from
branch
to branch

sing a thousand different melodies.

He knew only one chord
but his hand breathed
across those strings

as if they exhaled
a sky. Inside the shell
and wing of his hand, I found flight.

photo credit
linking to D'Verse

Ghosts

2011-10-29T00:29:00.000-07:00

Swan wings plough furrows
through cloud, like the sound of ghosts
pounding heaven's door

sunlight has become
a shrouded apparition
ghost of winter sky

dew film wraps the lawn
in an ephemeral mist
the ghost of a cloud

spider webs lace leaves
in the ghost of a bride's gown?
or funeral shroud?

fossilised pebble
the moon rolls beneath night's waves
drowned ghost of sun

photo credit
Linking up with Haiku Heights
& Haiku my Heart

sometimes poems come from...

2011-10-27T12:06:00.000-07:00

Cloud filtered sounds,a
movement of air telling geese
it is time to fly

Rain ruminates
heaving sodden
winter memory.

Occasional gold rushes
hemorrhage sunlight
upon barren shoreline

-And those virginal sheets
we left to freeze upon the line
become summer brides-

-And scales peel and we see
unstarched sacredness, briefly
we think of God again

Before madly panning
starker waters
for more.

Squinting out mud in the swill
all sacred elements thrown back
to the water.

Always moving on as before resigned
to the constant restlessness
of migrating birds

ever seeking
the bough
from which they fledged.

linking up with poets united

Short Story Slam....

2011-10-27T11:32:00.000-07:00

Muse

Your eyes seek words
and I being neither poetry
or prose am unreadable to you -

you live between lines
within pages feeding upon
paper thin manna

You wear the shoes of a
dancer yet you've never
touched the ground

You are corner torn from the blue sky, ethereal
formed from the inky plume
I an earth dweller drawn from clay

may only tend the vines
of your garden
weed beds, turn soil and water

the tree that grows you
ever further
from my reach

Thank you to :A Chance of Sunshine for the lovely picture prompt

Submitted to :Bluebell Books Short Story Slam Week #13