Saturday, March 02, 2013
Fog swirls over Newark Bay like shreds of silk, cook kill
against my moist cheek this chilly morning in March, shreds strewn over the
water in vaporous streams like thin hair, the serrated tips of stones poking
through.
Drips of rain or dew lingers on the lips of sticks that
pierce this fog, or run down the long brown leggy tree trunks, spread wide,
gaping before me as I stand near the shores, aching for spring to explde in and
around them, aching for warmer kinds of fingers to rumb them green, twig
fingers rubbed raw over the long season trying to revive what has died.
The wind makes these limbs groan in the mists, slow moaning
that makes something inside me ache, pieces of something pushed and pulled
inside my heart, shredded inside of me even as I breathe deep these wisps, even
as I sign out something I did not know grew inside of me, adding new fingers to
the rubbing limbs, hoping that if I rub hard enough, I might revive life inside
me, too, or at least something like it.
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