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…
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So lovely
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Thank you ❤️
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