Etched into bark gray as dusk, curled like paper,
Are the words: “Beth Loves Rene”.
Here, In the cool mountain air among all the decay
Of fallen leaves and rotting wood,
I measure silence with the tap of hunters’ shots.
It is late and I lean into the slope of tired light.
I seek un-fossilized fragments of love in everything.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment