Saturday, February 1, 2014

thistledown

reading to mother
on her deathbed
the books I loved at five—
            the rabbit burrow
            safe around us

the shell
of a box turtle,
split open and empty. . .
where did it go,
my fear of death?

footsteps
falling like syllables
in the rhythm
of an ancient rune
I outrun the dark

windsong
under the eaves
of a house
where once I lived. . .
this old bone flute, my body

wind in the grass
on Big Yellow Mountain. . .
over the granite
bones of my mother
I lay my body down


             ~red lights 10:1, Jan. 2014







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