Dusted

Silver-skinned fingertips tracing
trilobites, old stones
fossilized fern
Her hand a waxing crescent
of remnants
and someone else’s memory.
 
Her face was a wall—cracked but not
crumbling, weakened but
not frail.
Fists found her on either side
and she trembled.
 
Feet of clay
submerged and painted black,
She was bound to a river.
 
A statue of moon, of earth, of stone-
and the water washed her away.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: