Burning in the Air

I tear the shirt my daughter drew.

A girl.  A rose.

The garden we were then.

Dipping her uprooted cotton

into my last drops of water.  Struggling

to draw in air.  I

swaddle my face, swallow

my voice.  Begin to breathe

into smoke.  Into clouds.

Too close to her

to pray.  Too close to ask

to die

on the ground.

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2 thoughts on “Burning in the Air

  1. Your poems are so beautifully heartbreaking, Rose. ” the garden we were then” . . .I love that. Hoping you are doing okay as you write about this all month!

    Plane drawn across the sky
    a shuttle upon its blue loom
    with a twist and turn pattern
    that goes afray.

  2. Hi Debbie! I look forward to seeing the poem you write each day — loving them. Love today’s “twist and turn pattern.” And I so appreciate your support. I only slept about 3 hours each on Wednesday and Thursday nights. Last night, I finally slept — a good 10 hours, and I napped today. Recharged now 🙂

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