Now I Leave You For the Birds
I went for a walk and found you growing in a small clearing of mulch and rocks.
Few would hear if the tree of you fell.
The birds in your hair would, the bees sitting on your fingertips, too.
And now I.
I picked you, roots and all, in a fashion some might call selfish.
The dirt fell from your palms, from the fronds of your new eyes.
But your stone chest remained chained to that forest floor,
your ossified ankles shackled.
My efforts could not break them free.
Even my words held no force.
Too many years of rain then sun then rain
formed a perfect pocket for its hardened form.
Now I leave you for the birds,
the clovers and your wilting stone garden,
that they may find solace in your presence, a find lost on me.
I continued walking.
more by A.M. LAINE
photograph by Blake Richard Veroorn