She sleeps. Thoughts turn to dreams. She awakes. She lay silent, waiting to discern rested or restless. Succulent images toss and disappear like wrinkles on a jittery sea. The answer makes no difference. A cold, wet cloth on her face and hot coffee will set her feet in motion. She has learned much, yet she has learned little for the agenda of a day lies before her subject to change at any moment without notice. Many questions spoken and mute hold secrets of how much, how often, and how come remain answered, yet unattained.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? What becomes of hope if every mystery is explained? If she saw the roots beneath the ground, she would only try to untangle them and suffocate the tree. It’s enough to sort the tangible.
Dversepoets.com Prosery. Mine is exactly 144 words, excluding the title.The line incorporated into the text is
“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
out of this stony rubbish?”
The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot