still life

The spring sun rouses me
from my slumber
I stumble to the purpose
buried under last year’s leaves
My stash has been raided
as I awaited warmer days
The bones
picked clean of contentions
hold no pretension
of slaking my hunger
and crumble to ash at my touch
Ghosts of intentions
whet desires
I dare not mention
without raising hope
for the dead
dried fallen buds
crunching underfoot
as I make my way
to take my place
and make art of starvation
in this barren still life


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