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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4192 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Winter Letter Lauriette (Laurie Byro) I said that opals were unlucky, unless given in the middle of a hallowed wood. The polished tulip was hard, but not hallowed, hollow but not forest. It seems like we have always been this way. Me, waiting by a stream— sky thick with clutter, so many little eyes glinting through branches— Opening a package, all apologies, “hope this isn’t too late.” I wondered what you meant. Sitting on the train, all faces blur as we look backwards. I tire of watching snow fall on shoulders huddled from the cold. How you’ve captured our fire in brittle stones. I never intended not to meet you on those islands named after saints. If you tell me where, I will bring the scarf I’ve been knitting.. I no longer understand the difference between ice crystals and teardrops, have memorized sadness the way I learned the names of wildflowers, of trees. Just tell me if these stones are real, or something we’ve fashioned from our imaginations. Mine, as you know, is wild, sometimes used as evidence for faith. |
