Autumn had arrived

and left like bubbles

in the air,

yet the leaves still

crunched underfoot,

still crumbled in her hands.

Spring was rustling

in the bushes,

yet trees still

beckoned with bony fingers

bent brittle in a gale.

In birth she felt death,

new beginnings pockmarked

with loss and love

put into storage.

She was tired

of collecting debris;

smoothing out paper,

tidying twine,

piecing split china together.

She hoped

for light between naked trees,

stripped by time

running like water.

Instead, shadows

are magnified

by the clouds

she cannot shake;

dates and times,

the need for all black

woven into a shawl

which itches,

prickles upon skin

as she draws it tightly

around her shoulders.

A garment of grief

soaking up sunlight

in Summer.

_____________________________

Kristiana Reed juggles writing and teaching English; in both vocations she endeavours to remind people of their self worth and how dazzlingly beautiful…