this ground when I got here

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this ground when I got here

dry earth
cracked and bleached
underfoot
low brush
reaching down
for mercy
rather than up
for rain
tangled around
my ankles
a flurry of tiny claws
dull and pale
scratching the bark
ear shattering
in the noonday
siesta of the desert
i resist the urge to flinch
but flinch nontheless
a sky so white
so searing
i looked up once
an hour ago
and have not looked
up since
air so still
so burning
i am sure the world
has stopped turning
and i would not be surprised
to find that so.

but i was caved
in winter
my Freon veins
thick and heavy
under my skin
there was no light
for a hundred days
there were no stars
for ten more days than that
an ice floe a fathom
from my small fire and i
sits motionless still
(against its intention)
and so i was the one
fighting the lack of friction
of my feet upon the ice
promising my frostbitten heart
that we would find the sun.

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Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

Snpdrgon’s Poems (12)

Title Comments
Title Comments
only a searcher 4
sleepless 1
ra. 2
11/10 0
peripheral me 1
saynt 2
this ground when I got here 0
Someday You Will 2
Meet Me In Atlanta 3
alone 3
flour child 3
then some 3