spLit roCk

spLit roCk Grace Cram

Poetry 18

every autumn, i journey north to the shore to join the leaves’ last rebellion before they are no more— gold, caramel, cardinal— i watch the royal tree crowns fall and tumble and crumble like burnt cinnamon to the sea of cider, beneath it all…

landing as skeleton souls forever suspended in reverent reflections of a colorful heaven while floating down these analeptic, antiquated waters.

these weary waves wearing down the tired cliff face of my being split rock breaking and taking bits of me to death’s door until i am so much more.