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Compass–Christiana Carroll

Leaves in fall:

paper skins stretched dry and

cracked between bony fingers

hollow,

life blood drained from their tips.

Extremities frozen

keeping the heart alive.

A beauty shed

forgotten and left to rot

among seedlings

dreaming and waiting

to grow.

 

Fingers tap to the beating of geese wings,

searching for somewhere better;

a time and place to feel warm again.

Internal compass spins, as if magnetized to

polar and analogous ends;

a needle simultaneously

attracted and repelled,

always moving, always pulling.

But always

suspended in the middle

between two definite points,

two destinations yet

never truly belonging.

 

And yet spring is so far away.

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