Carolyn Smith

po_Smith-Carolyn1

 






METAMORPHOSIS
Carolyn Smith

Since you died, I notice
the outside seeping in.
There is the smell of damp in my chair.
My skin hangs in loose bracelets of bark
and fingers scratch against my face
like a branch walked into.
A numbness is spreading up my cold ankles
as my locked feet take root.
The hands on my watch stand
motionless as deer against the trees,
pulling away with long slow strides
dragging the nights into silent days.
I call out, like a startled jay
clattering up through the canopy
of leaves closing over me
as I search the woodlands paths
for traces of you.