a willow sags sadly in dark water,
weeping without eyes. the birch stares
back with tens of eyes that do not cry. i
hide my feelings from a watchful mother
who wears her own like robes, and we share
apples and plums from trees burdened with
more than they can bear.
my friends flock by mirrors in isolated
bedrooms; waxing, waning, and counting
bones. the mirrors show them eyeless
strangers made from shadows. outdoors,
there are maples buckling bony ankles.
there are flames which thicken
in the bruised callus of a yew that carves
and knocks the sky with broken
here, there are no shadows.
the forest calls out with an open mouth
and dawn responds with fiery brushes.
the forest blushes. indoors,
my friends whorl their cheeks with rosy oils.
we cannot stray far from our skeletons.
our branches arc aching spines, building
roots that anchor. they leave
By Louder Than The Storm contributor Amelie Maurice-Jones