Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
Memorials. Commemorations. A plunge in her heart collected along her ribcage, settling there as her eyes went to the ground, to the rock and rubble, to where things and people and places stood – tightening the grasp over her own basket. She nodded once, with a tight smile that ensured some layer of discomfort was felt, but she certainly wouldn’t say anything, before getting to work.
Her hands went to the smaller stones, crouching as she’d done seasons before, striving to unearth citizens who’d fallen. The memories lurked just under the surface of her skin, and she placed them, one by one, as a means of distraction, of determination, to not fall under the push and pull of grief.
--
Lena grabs at the smaller stones.
Her hands went to the smaller stones, crouching as she’d done seasons before, striving to unearth citizens who’d fallen. The memories lurked just under the surface of her skin, and she placed them, one by one, as a means of distraction, of determination, to not fall under the push and pull of grief.
--
Lena grabs at the smaller stones.
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
