I prepare the basket of food and pick out your favorite blanket. Time seems as thick as the mud from the torrential rains. A golden glow edges the dripping leaves. My distressed wedding dress will need a cloak. I hate to cover the gold needlework, my spells, to bring you home.
All are summoned to the graveyard. Musicians play, some sing, some dance, some carry their loved one’s skull. I carry your urn.
A year ago, we wed feeling the heat from the sunrise.
your kiss seals my fate
dawn burns your life into ash
you should have told me
Marcia Borell is happily enjoying her 70th decade. She continues to make marvelous artistic messes and to drag the stories out of her head and into words strung together on paper or the computer. Drabbles and haibuns are her favorite forms. She also finds ways to nurture her world. Summers are spent in the garden and the greenhouse caring for monarch caterpillars and butterflies.