rot

aching for more than just

quartz dimming to rust 

longing for a punctuation mark 

at the end of the longest

longest

sentence.

relax against the soil and grime with each passing year

angry and aching for something words fail to name

bride of the wood

beloved of the forest

betrothed to the rosy velvet dusk

i soften into the embrace of the moss and stone

and wait for spring, in her fragile beauty, to collect my bones again