Abalone Shell
Standing
here:
in the
. center
. of a shell,
toes touching grass
blades
surrounded by vacant structures.
A weathered storm window off its hinges,
. crooked
. beside its pane,
below
rotten roof shingles
exposed.
Titles of names worn beyond recognition
. hanging
off
. its
. wall.
. Rusted bars remain across broken windows,
. a glimpse of sky freedom not comprehended,
. only the fractured torture contained within.
. Forgotten stains of old-souled cries
. stream
. down
. brick fallen away leaving foundation corners exposed,
. chain
. link
. fences
. cut by a
. tiny
. courtyard,
. yellow spring blossoms line the inside.
The shell cracked and emptied
her tears,
. onto hallowed ground.
And after the pain
poured
out of itself,
What is left?
Buried bones seeping into earth’s ash,
returning.
Beyond, a shimmering mix
of silver and light blue reflections.
On this cool spring morning,
baby
fern
leaves unfurl
reaching for sun-tips
blanket over petrified remains.
A circle of elder women
stand together,
. their rhythmic body movements
caressing the still air.
Dawn’s sunlight streams
beyond
the oak tree’s patchwork, a winding embrace.
While above, circling in flight, hawk angel wings
glistening:
sun’s aerial
blessings.
~ Megan M. Cutter
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