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