I was gone for awhile.
Beneath the darkest ground.
Cold to the touch– I was hard as death.
I’ll bury myself here.
Nothing can grow from this ash-made piece of me.
I place two hands above the mound.
Bitter cold in the spring. And fast dead leaves in summer.
I put my ashes there.
Vigorously watching—half-hoping for the rain.
Whole-needing Light again.
Cold ashes in the ground. Anything, Anything?
Two hands above the mound.
Nothing, nothing. And I am hard as death. Continue reading “Words from the Wasteland”