©Hummingbird 2019

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”

J.R.R. Tolkien
I feel the warmth of your fingertips 
as they dance along my cooled skin.
And the silence of my winter,
quickly melts into a flood.

It rushes down deserted halls and vacant cobwebbed spaces,
the walls that I have partitioned
break and scatter violently.
Gasping, I clutch with wild claws
at the edges of what separates me from LIVING.

I throw back the shroud of tapestries
thick stitched with barbarous thread, and 
the echo of your words hook my flesh in their final attempt to keep me.
But the pain has dulled with time
and my roots stretch beyond me.

Almond shaped, blue green orbs, squint 
as the quick slant of light 
collide and shift my sleeping thoughts. 

I am a jigsaw,
pieces of me scatter into the
unsettled dust that slept too long,
in places meant for the living.

I am spring, 
a vulnerable shell,
uncurling from my hibernation.

Wanting to thrive against
The calloused curve of your green thumb.

©Hummingbird 2019

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