Her heart melted like wax and ran down insider her silently. No one could hear or see it. As numbness cloaked her, she lay flowers on his grave. Only because she saw the sun smile did she do the same. Thirty years gone, she still asks why. This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence. The following years did not yet provide the answer. She waits still of hope in the future she does not yet see.
People are irreplaceable. The living does not substitute those who are gone. She cares not what anyone says; grieving lasts a lifetime. Maybe that is why she is fragile as fine china and is too easily broken.
If you happen to see her, she could be anywhere, treat her kindly.
Because you probably won’t recognize her, treat everyone kindly.
Today at dversepoets.com Bjorn is challenging us to another prosery.
He has given us a line of poetry “This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence”, asks us to incorporate it into prose, fiction or biographical, of 144 words. Considering the season and Sweden’s tradition of honoring the memories of the dead, I followed suit.
Fiction? Fictitious people do not die.