The Linnet's Wings The Sorrow - Page 113

The Linnet´s Wings It isn't yet winter Caroline Hardaker but all I hold is desiccated bark, retreating to cured origins. Looking up through heavy roots, stems, wilted ends I scope the sky; a life ponderous as slate and prone to cracking at each new quake, at every thought, sticks fall from their bundle. All buds have blossomed and dropped, leaving hollow cups and sham-caskets behind. Stalks are splinters, tools to pen peculiar notes woven in marrow odorous with iron-rust, and which can only be read from the inside, out. I am a rawhide diary; my ink's black fading hand-in-hand with my understanding of its ciphers. And your face – a folded settlement to live in between the leaves, a vestige of me, is recorded; mouth frozen open in a wide 'O' of surprise. 113