The paths are quiet again

The paths are quiet again

The silence in me
shuffles with the leaves

feel you hand
in mine again

the tired touch of sunlight
settling in the shallows
of my palms

the scent of smoke
weaved into the breeze
birdsong splitting the air

expired Goldfinches
flutter round my hands
the ghost of fireworks

I walk as if I carry water
in the bowl made by my hands

water shadowed
with drowned flames

an uprooted tree
forgotten by the storm
spills its blossom into the grass

bruised by a blush
slowly being torn
into dusty pink

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