I walk in the shadow of skeletal trees,
their fearsome, naked branches reaching out
in desperation, pleading for redemption
like ghostly soldiers back from war in search
of peace, an end to dreams
of screams and shattered flesh.
Scattered underneath, concealed among
withered, blood-red remnants of last year’s
flowers, lurk spiked seed pods,
tiny, inobtrusive land mines
set to detonate at slightest touch
exploding everywhere new seeds
prepared to sprout, to conquer, and
to dominate all lesser growth
exhibiting their red magnificence.
Until, again, the glory ends
in stark, bare desolation.Read more "POETRY: RITA ROUSSEAU – REMEMBERING"