Woodland Echoes
A poem
A poem
Her silky voice sharpens on my tree bark,
as my imagination finds a poem,
a way to heal this thorny halo without leaving scars.
The memories of the past begin to fade
like ninety-nine red balloons.
And ten Gallica roses, dead on their stems
embody the pain and sorrow that fills this space.
Time and place have no place in time,
only the weeping blue of a violin string.
The artist’s eye, bourbon-stained,
seems out of focus in this sombre setting.