Published: Mississippi Crow Magazine, Fall 2009.
Willow, of a specter’s dream, breathe
You fell lightly down the dew covered well
Like a broken feather your bones whistle
Caught up in the wind of your end
You forget why
What irony
It dispels all that is you
Crack against the dry bottom
It becomes useless
You don’t even remember who pushed
I liked this one a lot
Thank you so much. Poetry is the one form of writing I keep for myself. It is a very personal walk in the cloud of my thoughts.