Touch wood, a touchstone

of faith, for coming days that

the world keeps turning 

The brushes, choked with 

dried paint, sit disused in an

empty jar, forlorn 

A fecund feast waits

to be plucked ripe from the vine

and devoured, savored 

Through the broken glass

a ruin that once held laughter

now only holds ghosts 

The final petal 

falls from the orchid in a 

death so delicate  

The minotaur was 

as lost in the labyrinth

as Theseus was

 

Scrape your nails against

the edges of the dark pit 

you dug over years