the face of feeling

war torn the triumph of heart

.. there left standing, sun cast in a golden eye and the black heart of a burial that registers as a soak from the spring & the ever growing sound of the willow ..

.. in the aftermath of my water,

cast rays in the sand, or the shatter of its ripples, 

pools of reflection, the seeding of sprouts from a spring already fallen, the winter's necromancy on the burial grounds of flowers, roses and lavender, what you might and could hand to another, or then plant near a meaningful tree or just any tree

are your hands scarred, or scabbed over in the drying blood that cracks in winter's cold hands, the fault, and the valley of the fall

stilled image of the moment, that at a time was more than it was and is now more than it is .. somehow kept alive in breathing, brought inside, held over the fire or the blanket, ashen notes calling & the destitute of your hallow

this is the sword: i have photos of it. there are no words anymore, just the ball thrown at a wall, bouncing back, untouched. sitting in a quiet room, the door closed, and the mirror of me sitting on the floor, seeing an eye of seeing the died, still holding the resin's shadow of its season, a season that has come and gone

..    (i still love the seasons of sand

                   s l i p p i  ng through)

Copyright 2019 ⓒ / Forrest Gallagher