By Eva García-mayers
Ashen grey, love that was white snow left to melt upon the frozen meadow faded photographs — old diaries secrets carved wood that once had meaning lines as fine as Madame’s greying hair shed upon a pillowcase rouge smeared onto the cold pool the looking glass shafts of light soak through decaying skin — falling in mottled sheets silver–encrusted lips kissing soft bark a child’s boots tread feather-light beds of rotten leaves hours vanish mind. empty sturdy beams clean pale sky windows open doubt growing moss ivy garden touching eaves dripping white oak and rain singing names across the wood’s fine grain
This is the second poem by Eva García-mayers in this blog. Twice a month, her writing group has given me the energy to continue walking. And writing.
Texterium 