barbed wire dragged down by roots and grass
I thought it pliable, unafraid, stepped over.
The earth squelched and the sun
was the dust off an old book snapped shut
but bright enough to bleed my eyes
of bad blood, so my hand I raised
to shield me.
I heard birds and jungle-beasts
in that canyon,
lost to the wild, groping.
These little violets in a tin cup,
struggle to root, spurt and
flower.
No comments:
Post a Comment