in the spring she will bloom again

House of Heart

The blue sky has given way

to cold grey arches.

There is little tending to the

grieving dark or falling leaves from

barren trees, detached by laws of seasons

thrust from the past into the present.

Lost to the sun, her destiny is the hard earth.

What remains is a treasure of clay and a

potter’s wheel behind a sleeping spider.

She breathes warm breath on frozen fingers

until once again she is malleable,

bent and shaped into her likeness.

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