I am unsure how this happened,
but the stone grew, encasing me,
protective and cold, a walking grave
of comfort for many years.
Now, having grown moss over
the passing of so many seasons and
used to the weight of stone I carry
into the calm of night,
blossoms burst forth from this tonnage
of comforting cold stone,
this grave of a home I have known.
I would like to twist,
turn away from
yet find I cannot.
I cannot gather dust to me,
creating stone again.
Cannot piece shards together
for there are not enough left
in this remaining dust.
As I rest in this place,
I will tuck these blooms away--
Until they bear ripened fruit,
Readied for picking.
that they may only be
I am a retired teacher, enjoying everything that retirement means. In addition, I have been active in the LGBTQ community since I was four years old and marched my Ken doll with all his little Ken accouterments to the big metal trash can in the yard. Yes, I dumped Ken, along with said accouterments, into the can and slammed the lid on. My two Barbie dolls lived happily ever after.
View all posts by Annette Kalandros
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