Sunday, January 13, 2008

The Girl In The Red Petticoat

It is, for the girl in the red petticoat,
a mere pleasantry to go spreading
unhappiness as a wind might spread many
thistles' seeds, never staying a single

summer to witness what grisly autumns are
left in her barefoot wake. "Seasons are for no
Mother but Nature," she explains, softly
fleeing South, like a swallow or an

amended promise. Fruitless now, the
death-filled land can only reply in
broken, condemning silence; it throbs
inside me, and begs. Does the lonely

tree falling make a sound? Perhaps not;
only when it is the last of a jungle.

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