birthmark-poetry:

I like to imagine them,
standing there among
the poppies,
braiding the grass between
their toes.

She let the nettles grow over
the flowers, cover
the bricks, burnt
umber and forest
green. I buried
her voice
between the pine trees,
below the mulch and leaves
in a glass jar,

He watches the beetles
scuttle over the upturned
ground, little lines of
glinting emeralds -
marching until they
trail off.

The forest is silent
and still.