Frou Frou Foxes In Mid Summer Fires
I learned to burn
without light
to leave no trace
only the smoke
grasping onto the hope
of the gust that would ******* away.
Yet, it still tumbled and never arrived.
It slipped and seeped right through my cracks
like dust
to fine to tug.
As though it knows
I am not worthy of its mourning.
Foxgloves wilted--
much too late.
You no longer fill me.