The Dead Can't Dance With The Living

January 16, 2018
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The golden leaves,
scattered with jade.
Trees so closely knit in the cold air
that the blinding swirl of blurry sky
can't be seen.


The surprisingly sweet scent
of leaf litter,
and the still scene of life.


Every now and then,
a leaf falls,
fluttering dizzily like
a confused butterfly.
It joins the filthy piles,
crammed in corners crusted with dirt.


The ring of cars on the highway,
fade in the background,
barely heard.
Like ocean waves.
Like the flicker of fish.
So subtle,
it could be your imagination.


Cold and serene,
barely a brush of wind.


Your eyes trail from branch
to branch.
The dead mingled with the living.
Some dry and cracked, spindling dangerously
on a twisted jerk of bark,
others moist and rough, breathing.


You imagine,
leaping from the treetops,
resting on the farthest edge.
Lighter than the leaf that blew so slowly.


If you could dance with your grandmothers,
Those who are gone.
And look up together
at the golden glade,
the cold air,
still cold,
Their old hands,
still grey.
But your fresh tears, like long lost friends,
streaming warm.


Knowing you can't be like
the leaf litter,
and stiff family
of rough trees.


Knowing you can't float like they do,
knowing they're long gone.
Unlike the dirt and rocks,
amongst the grass.
The dead can't hold hands with the living.
You, can't dance with the past.






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