She is a blade of grass amongst the forest.
Her eyes like dual sunrise
peek from behind the sheets
as the old man’s hand creaks
open the Elmwood door.
Two cracks in the ceiling let the rain
run in streams to her eyes
as she sweeps the book of Daphne in the drawer.
She tries to stay still, her eyes return to night.
The laurel tree rubs the window. A mosquito
bangs against the glass. The man sits upright
near the hearth in an oak chair
that cracks on the floor boards like a forest fire.
The sound of the room like an empty well, drips
along the walls echo. Her eyes now sunset,
crackling fire heating the old mans hands. Her body tries
to fall through the bed
to burrow in dirt like a worm.
Her heart a hummingbird,
ants whittle her skin into pieces.
He sips cold tea by the surging fire. The shadows blow
across the ceiling, the wood
black but fireflies dance in glowing circles.
He hears the sound of wind over fire,
air sucks the flames up the chimney to release.
There is a candle dying on the bedside drawer,
wind sharpens the blade, extinguishes the candle,
the tall shadow nears the bed. Her roots dig deeper,
and she ascends above the bed
ripping up the floorboards. Her skin thickens,
the ants now lifeless, the hummingbird
leaves. Her eyes daylight
above the wold
she sees a blade of grass
clinging to his sole.