inklings: the dryad

6 inklings - saturday

she left some flint in the tinderbox
and a bottle of Madeira in the cabinet
some rice grains sit on the counter
where the ants have gotten in by the sugar pot
there’s an empty frame in the entrance hall
the canvas yellows at the fringe
and a soft creak skids across the living room
as you rest your head against the armchair

can you catch that tinge of citrus
waltzing from the orange tree?
the salt stinging the emptiness at the back of your tongue
where were you when she stepped out of the door
at the backhand of the rumbling storm clouds
burning a trail across the mercury skies?

she left some chips in the door hinge
and a jar of ash in the back of your closet
some charcoal is smeared against your pillow
where the spiders perch upon their dusty thrones
there’s a stack of blank albums chucked through the bedroom window
the glass shivers in its frame
and a deathly reticence lurks behind every wall
as you sink into the hollows of the wooden planks


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