The flow of the stream

The white-lipped stream, silent flow through
melting ice. ….scaffold of snow on
limbs, cold rain falling, she imagines it deep
she is silent; the roof of her home
in the wood thatched, stairs to a loft where
thoughts and inclinations plainly
guide her. ….rather a summons to her curious
eyes; broken-lipped shutters to
the thawing, silent tomb for winter; rustling of
her gown to a stranger, handful
of ashes and still breath. ….the door whence
she left, the door she entered again.

Copyright © 07/27/2015 fishbonepoetry®


This entry was posted in Poetry.

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