In stone-cold dark,
Eventide suspended in the sky,
She is flat out on swept-earth ground.
Her shoulders pressing into soil,
Bones brushed with arenose layers.
Too-long limbs are snug,
Encased in too-thin skin,
She has always been lacking in carapace.
With an exhale,
So near silence,
Her lips propped open in drowsiness,
She counts the buds
Silhouetted in the dark
Drooping from the wilting tree-boughs.
Perch on the lowest, the nearest branch,
The minute dots ashen in the dark
And whirling in the breezed air.
The night-breath stirs,
Wafting and mellow,
Asking each bud in turn
For a midnight dance,
And none refuse.
Not a wallflower is in sight,
Save the one stretched over loam below,
The one with too-long limbs
And reed-like bones in too-thin skin,
The one with dirty hair
And greying eyes
And heaving ribs in hollow chest.
©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.