The Seasons: a progression
That frigid winter cracked
my ribs from the cough I got
living in a squat—no heat, no luck, no
remedy. Just wired dreams of
electricity. Burning hot and
Spring came late. Branches
reach as moss measures time in
dark green, soft to the touch
like the fur of a small animal learning
to grow out of its cage.
I have summer words trapped
under my tongue, calcified.
Coalescing so that they may emerge
as pearls plucked forth by
my salted pen. Transformed and
straight from the sea.
My ribcage is full of autumn
and attendant scents: dead leaves
learning to be loam, smoke signals rising
from chimneys, a decay that bears
nonetheless its own odd and poignant
beauty. A season mostly of
one word: succumb.
@ellowrites @ellopoetry @apoem_4u
#writing #poetry #whiskeyandpens #theseasons #aprogression #moody #poignant