The vultures circle, drilling through carbon
fiber apparitions, morphing in gradient tempers mirroring the waterfall’s
frozen pulsating beauty.
Soon the crows will vacate the tombs from
which they perch, smuggling secrets to tap on heads of pins and thread through
eyes of needles.
The sparrows will undress the moss, coveting
the beetle armor adornments and gossamer webs of eight legged widow-makers that
make mausoleums of their insides.
A final hiss from the sun’s molten seduction
of the shadows embracing the trees, will summon the creek to silence its song
as her spectral hands sink into the seasoned shoreline.
She will step atop the torn asphalt, bare
feet gripping black ice as her body drip-dries in subzero chill, her murky
lungs leaving her aglow in a strikingly untidy resurrected midwinter death.
Her naked frame firm on pointed toe dead dance, swaying and
bending in pastoral shapes along the bridge, as curly willow locks matted with
mud and debris, hang sunken promises from each note
hummed in her shunning of
peace.
E.A. O'Connell
No comments:
Post a Comment