Year One, the ‘Straggle and the Thorn’
two down, hung strangled and forlorn.
Weak shadows cast on rotten steps,
painted nails and twisted ankles.
Ten more pass in the blink of an eye
eleven down, high as the crows fly.
Early Baroque leaf-green reach,
bamboo armatures, black mold, and jar of honey.
Twelve year blossoms dripped echoes,
memories, deals, and heaven’s shadows.
Bones held them out at arms length,
farther out from the hardwood footings,
past the scratches and the smile in her eyes.
In the end, the moth size crimson cuttings
dropped down off the hill, through the bridge
and right between the cheeks of another summer,
touching this time, once again, the older bird heart.
(written by M. Gellatly)
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