Tin Jewels
As a child
I peeked under the
skirts
of topiary;
trailed my fingers
along the petals
of flaking rust
and dug the splinters
of loneliness
from the pads of my
fingers.
I ran barefoot through
the slugs
and breathed the soft
fur
of dandelion fairies;
catching thistle seeds
as they drifted
through the echoes of
schoolyard taunts.
Sundown bats along the
banks of the canal
dead pigs and
half-submerged bottles
the targets of juvenile
missiles
and the soft huff of a
horse's breath
on a frosty October
morning.
2 comments:
Oh Rachel - ' and dug the splinters of loneliness
from the pads of my fingers.'
Sigh. I understand that completely.
Thank you. I knew I wasn't the only one.
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