I Still See Her Face

I Still See Her Face
© Surazeus
2017 12 18

The juice that glitters in the broken cup,
congealed from sunlight through the frightened glass,
encloses sorrow in the spiral eye
where words were first invented before dawn.

The flames that writhe from fractured bones of Earth,
expressing breath of wind from rhythmic beat
of river-gushing hearts, dissolves the mind
of nameless fool in flashing waves that sing.

We are not yet dead, we whisper at dusk,
and carry cold fear in handfuls of dust
to search for seeds of herbs lost in the wind,
and each one slips soft feather in their hair.

The last seed from the ancient tree of fruit
glistens black in pale dust, so little girl
pinches it tight between her fragile fingers,
and holds it up toward the approving sun.

We must bury seeds, hidden in moist soil,
and they must die in the darkness of hope
so they may rise reborn at flash of love
to blossom fruit from the heart of the world.

Rising up from the dry dust of the ground,
she stretches her arms toward white swirling clouds
and transforms into the tall tree of fruit,
for I still see her face though she is dead.