I Listened to the Photographs
My wings are feathers of ink and pages, spines of titles, wonders that form from every sentence and exclamation. In late autumn’s storm of leaves I will be your umbrella so you won’t feel their tears. A thousand clipped blossoms spilled across the sand from an open car door. I suppose someone thought it was romantic, a gesture to awe a heart. In the dust mirror of summer all I could see was a garden grieving it could no longer hear the honeybees. Winter watches from the horizon. It’s barren antlers of oak limbs writing gothic poems across brittle grass that can longer feel the color of green. He tossed his hat into the wind trusting fate had a warm heart. Silly man never considered fire takes a spark, not a sliver of ice. If I lit a candle for each of my mistakes, I’d have every bridge burned before I could cross it. open me to ink there are a thousand stories buried on my tongue ©Susie Clevenger 2024 Word Crafters Prompt