By Olivia Tiffin, TIWP Student
The sky was bright and pale unstained blue. Clouds clear in splotches of white against the blue in which kept our feet against the rubble paved to make sidewalks and allies. And yet the azure felt sick to this painted, unblemished sky.
Trees swayed along a cobble path brim, flowers, morning glories set along the bramble hedges and red leaves. Tangled vines and green moss spread over the stems rooting them and lacing their shoulders in a green blanket.
The wind turned them in its ridged palms as if to comfort the flowers.
As if the forest drew a breath in and never let the world move.
And as a child, knelt clumsily to the height of the brittle flower, and cupped its petals within its bruised palms.
Reap the glory from its root. So it dies but the color will not fade. What does it change, as time will be its reaper when the sun dips below the horizon and the sky streaks an orange, purple cascade.
And as its child, carry it home like an injured animal.
To braid it in their brother’s battered, brunette curls of hair.