Monday, June 2, 2008

summer hollow

little lost one
wait here and listen,
in the comfort of the souls of the trees

sit still and you will
hear them murmur
gentle reassurances to those
who find respite here

it means nothing to them
if you are alive,
or if your bones slowly grow moss
on this bed of roots

roots that weave tendril-like
patiently over old thigh bones
buried under years of
decaying leaf litter

it is all the same

Rachel Westfall
June 2, 2008

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