She is a tall woman.
She came from long ago.
When she gets close enough
cold seeps into my bones.
I know that she can’t be
the one who was here last.
All those handy railings —
that one was short, like us.
I haven’t yet made time
to engage her in talk.
She is waiting to tell.
When there is time, I’ll hear.
(When the visitors go
and my husband’s asleep.)
Does she belong to house
or, older, to the land?
I glimpse her as white light.
I think her skin was dark.
April PAD Challenge 4
Prompt: A history poem (national, personal ... the history of anything).
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments are moderated and will be visible after being approved by the blog owner. If you can only comment anonymously, please include your name in the comment, just so I know who's talking to me.