- Crying Woolf
She scours the shore for the perfect stones,
Earth’s little party favors
Strewn, spewn from the river as confetti for the landlocked.
No rush…she has time.
Each must be perfect
Each must be chosen
Sharp eyes must seek out those that contain
Infinitesimal bits of her heart…
The weight of her pockets sag under her collection
The weight of her life sags under her past
The weight of her heart sags under her breast.
Must rush…she has no time.
She names them for those who have stolen pieces of her
Like so many thieves in the night:
Jagged and piercing for him;
Smooth and light for him;
Rough and pocked for him.
This one is perfectly round.
This one; abstract.
This one glints in the sunlight as treasure.
Forget, forgot, forgotten.
Laden with her burden, she glides quietly
Into the surf.
Last look, last breath, lost loves.
She grounds her pockets with Earth
So that she may leave it.
© 2012, Rebecca Ash. All rights reserved.