It’s not the raven’s song that breaks her, but the epitaph its feathers write in shadows on the flowerbeds she grows, the prayer beneath its talons clutching seeds before the sunlight breaks and evening makes the garden sleep.

It’s the sweet bouquet of closing roses, not the thorns that make her bleed.

It’s her tears that make the soil fruitless, broken blooms and bulbs too deep that make her cry. It’s spiders sewing webs that rob her leaves of dew on mornings in the summer when the afternoons are overzealous and the breeze too thin to carry rain.

It’s the insect on the stamen chewing, not the one behind her ear that stings.

It’s languid drips of moonlight falling cool upon an orchid stem, the semblance of a wholesome light that paints her face with hope for blossoms when she wakes. It’s her voice in echoes through the leafless fruit-trees in the orchard where she grew, conversations in the fog with ghosts and dreams, blessings proffered in the soil between her fingers while she rakes the loosened roots to let them breathe.

It’s her story sung in brighter voices by the mockingbirds outside her window while she weeps.

#rome #italy

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