Rubbing things green


Saturday, March 02, 2013


Fog swirls over Newark Bay like shreds of silk, cook kill against my moist cheek this chilly morning in March, shreds strewn over the water in vaporous streams like thin hair, the serrated tips of stones poking through.

Drips of rain or dew lingers on the lips of sticks that pierce this fog, or run down the long brown leggy tree trunks, spread wide, gaping before me as I stand near the shores, aching for spring to explde in and around them, aching for warmer kinds of fingers to rumb them green, twig fingers rubbed raw over the long season trying to revive what has died.

The wind makes these limbs groan in the mists, slow moaning that makes something inside me ache, pieces of something pushed and pulled inside my heart, shredded inside of me even as I breathe deep these wisps, even as I sign out something I did not know grew inside of me, adding new fingers to the rubbing limbs, hoping that if I rub hard enough, I might revive life inside me, too, or at least something like it.


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