a warning

 

a warning devon fitzgerald ralston

Beneath the leaves, scattered like forgotten paper decay grows in silence, twisting away at strength knotted, ingrained, until the heartwood weakens

and becomes something else, entirely.

a reminder. a metaphor. a photograph. a poem.

a ghost.

No longer an escape route, a way for me to get from here to there;

I stand at the edge, arms open, head to the sky;

I am still. I am never still.

As a girl, my mother called me her bee, and as I watch one go from flower to flower taking in what is offered, before moving to the next I understand why

someone once told me I was like a slow burning fire.

I want to be light and sweet, spinning in circles in fresh cut grass, making shapes out of clouds the way I was

before

I began rotting under foliage tethered to darkness and poison, splintering

becoming something else.

a ghost. a poet. a reminder.

a warrior.

a bridge not to be crossed.