Layers

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She keeps it in a wooden box

between soft layers of cotton —

the arrowhead

he found in the desert.

It still bears his fingerprints —

invisible, like the many poems

she composes in her head

but never writes,

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poems she sends

across the valley

hoping they’ll lodge

in his dreams

some heavy night.

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She imagines them

circling his body

like halos of concentric light,

or perhaps brushing his face

with kisses

silky as a feather.

.

But then, like the arrowhead

she draws them home again

tucking them safely away —

sonnets nestled in her soul

between reluctant layers

of silence.

.

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© 2014, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post from 2014)

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I hope everyone is staying well out there. Will try to catch up with you all soon. ❤

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