She’s a late riser
And every year it is the same
Her mask of white
Is torn and rinsed far from
Her beaten face
Rippled with the stench
Of moldy wood
Battered, pressed
And sticking firmly
To the earth
A dusty mat
Embedded with dead
But entwined with living
She is peeled from the floor
And slapped in the face
By a chill wind
Her clear blue eyes
Are glued with sap
And rain
She yawns,
And takes her precious time
Then rises up
And blossoms full
With quiet beauty
Flying free in
Fragrances
As frail and damp as she
Her hair,
Belonging to the moss
Brings scents of sun
And pollen
Dancing to her song
She gaily sings with
Every tongue
Of every bird
And smiles she does
With radiance
So all that stay
To grip in vain
With frosty hooks
On tips of flesh
Will melt away
In silent pain
|