Fractal, fracas, frisée. I’m reading through
the Fs. But then, from there, a short frisson
away to other worlds. In the shade, the quiet
makes the letters squint. Or have I fallen
down a rabbit hole? I see myself among
the curly ferns— I’m still as small
in many ways as in that first rupture;
and everything thereafter, its adjustment.
The key has always been in my skirt pocket—
how could I have forgotten? The pages
bookmarked, I shrink, I crawl; I grow toward
the garden’s checkerboard of grass and roses.
[LAG-other-response date=”09 12 2012″ url=”http://yeosi.wordpress.com/2012/09/09/small-stone-146/” title=”small stone (146)”]