Root Gathering

Fallen twigs from last season

Pile beside the fire pit

Leaves crumble under my


Winter boots

I spy the old chair I won at an antique mall

Among the quiet rubble


It whispers accusations

As if I have caused this disrepair

The thickening of arteries


In its wooden legs

Splayed beyond reassembly

Laying in the grass, I squint


Between branches

Bright with nimble buds

Imagine a magnifying


Glass that looks up, expanding

The wheelbarrow has tumbled to its side

Full of last year’s clippings, worn to a


Hollow, weeping sludge

Drowned, dried assemblage

A parchment of past autumn


I am ready to pitch and burn

My offering to



© 2017 Kristina Moulaison

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