Silver Cycle
In a pinch of the slenderest fingers
like tapioca beads to the wind
the mercury fog is popped.
Wild silver happenstance rains down
and settles quiet. Quiet.
Had my pale head touched the earth
at the moment of it's impact
I would have drowned in the mist.
With slender fingers turned to roots,
hair to moss, blood to sap,
a papier-mache skin to the earth's skeleton
To be popped, by the tenderest finger's of soil embrace
drawn to the sky like tapioca beads to the wind.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006
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