Between the doors of our two houses
is a trail of glitter, old fabric scraps,
squirts of paint, pastels
magazine cutouts, torn and shapeless.
The Art forms a line
between the earth
and my feet.
The doors between this world and the next
are layered in furs and vines, weighty and large.
Here, with the living, we can't see past,
Because we are still growing,
And never still enough.
I have no words to say goodbye to you
only poems & Art
kept crushed in my hand.
Earth-Mama, 2011
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