In this quiet,
Rattling bones laid to soil,
Turn to meal and mend
Hearts bled long before.

An open window
Whispers “I promise, promise…”
While skin falters,
Feeds the mites,
Brittle hair crisping
In a thick summer sun.

It’s no wonder
The meadow larks flit,
Bounce across their breeze laden routes
In serious tempos meant
To rouse a sleepy soul.

I always come back to this,
Your voice sent through
Filigreed lattice
Into the one place
I have left –

This soil of stilled bones,
Quieted on the moon
Of dusky mornings,
Thick with fog and frost.

08/10/2011

Posted on 08/10/2011
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie