a heart becomes,
to head off hurt that picks away
at skin.
We turn stones and send life
scurrying,
up, down, through a mountain.
The voice cries, open sesame.
We gather stone upon stone upon
sparkly stone
to fill our arms. The hole we leave,
as wide
and scorched as grief.
Susan Jane Sims
This is a very recent poem and written in response to a prompt on the Blog 52 hosted by Jo Bell.The prompt was to choose a word from a given list and write an Assay poem.
