meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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Shrine


******************************

a shrine is not made
of sticks nor wood
nor stone

but of bones
touches of flesh
sometimes whiskers
sometimes fur
yet
all from the deep yard
of memories

you hold your cold nose near
its narrow grey windows
look in again and again
see the molecules of your breath
collect

sometimes satisfaction taps you on your
slouching shoulder
but more often
the black glove of forgotten-ness

this is grief
your Familiar
you both become lost
the sheets dingy
tear and dissolve

in a sunrise soon
this charcoal will be your house
not made of sticks
nor wood
nor stone
built from the even more
frail bones and flawed flesh
of failing memory

**********************************
LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM
8:45 AM PST/11/2/2019 TIME-DATE STAMPED
ORIGINAL WATERCOLOR MEMORIES/POEM BY MELISSA A HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS POET MELISSA A HOWELLS
AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE
MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD





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