Serene

skittering ing-ing-ing

serene

skittering ing-ing-ing

dead leaves drift through me

familiar

a family
a glowing fire
hardy grins and bear hugs

things are dire

my bare feet
grip the chilly cement
comforting

close to earth

my throat
a secret passageway
for words unspoken

my psyche

a forest of weeping willows

the Colorado sunrise in winter

mountains chiseled by the solstice
asphalt grinding ing-ing-ing
around the summit

garlic bread eaten slowly ly-ly-ly

when everyone goes to bed

lips moving ing-ing-ing

she eats like a bird

crushing leaves under my talons
crunching the best thing I’ve ever tasted
all this time wasted

lonely ly-ly-ly

at the dinner table, I don’t want to stop eating

skittering always skittering

the leaves scratch my windshield
and I drink peppermint mochas
to feel at home

…where is home?

I am home.

an etching, indents in a handmade wooden table

my little brother chanting
for dinner
my dad angry he left marks with the edge of his fork

marks in time

time, tunnels forward

echoes of drunken shouting ing-ing-ing

a scratch on the record player
skipping ing-ing-ing
the love we had for each other

dead to the world

quiet

a gravestone from Ireland sits in the foyer of my grandparents’ home after it fell off a cliff from erosion

I’m obsessed with remembering, like they were
I’m waiting for the right time for my head to hit the pillow
It’s never the right time

I am a weeping willow

a home swept away

with roots still buried in the ground
and
fingers losing their way in the earth

drawn-out branches on the trees,
help me

I ache for snow blanketed winters in Trinidad
when the boulders transform into protectors and crocodile rock roared at dawn
and we taunted fate by balancing our feet on teeter totter rock

calloused, blue and gray fingers at dusk
the leaves always linger on the branches
in the dead of winter

like I linger now
on a story I never want to end

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Roxanne Byrne 2026 ©