Burnished needles cushion your faltering
steps on the steep hillside and
tepid warmth filters through the canopy
silvered just, by fledgling light.
Melt-water mirrors, brown as eyes reflect shadow
where summer can never choose to linger,
a frayed leaf, veins unbroken, is embossed
on mouldering ground.
Twigs underfoot snap shattered reminders:
“We were here first.”
Even the grackles, bouncing on bare branches
won’t argue but, they are holding back.
Rising scent is the breath
exhaled after a long fitful slumber.
“Like a resurrection,”
Your smile eclipses shrunken
bones, a sunken face
I am, quite suddenly, hollow…
prayers and lies my only adhesive
About the Writer
Virginia Boudreau is a retired teacher living on the south west coast of Nova Scotia, where she can often be found on a beach. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a wide variety of international literary magazines and anthologies, both in-print and on-line.She is currently completing a full length poetry manuscript, twenty years later than intended.