Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Shadows on the Grass

in the cellar
of my old home,
pinned in a cigar box . . .
one by one I let them go

all the bits 
and pieces of myself
I’ve left behind . . .
oak and willow set new buds
before the old leaves fall

folding the map 
with its worn creases 
I follow 
an unknown path . . . 
the shimmer of small wings

toward the winter solstice
arm in arm
with the death crone . . .
flowers spring up at her feet

      ~Ribbons 10:1, Winter 2014