by Barbara Brooks

Fire’s ember tendered
by moss, exposed to air,
extinguished by tears.

In a Room,

I dance
with you
in light shafts,
before drifting
to shadow.
The
door
cracks,

a current sucks
me to dark.
Cold air
settles,
taking me
to the floor.
I am snagged
by a crevice
between boards.

by Barbara Brooks

Roots, land-locked lobsters, pull free
from the soil.  Legs intertwine
and bodies are two layers deep.

Clods of dirt drip
loose and drop into the bed.
Weeds, winter’s barnacles, cling
to the fragile tendrils.

Nestled into new spaces, green
antennae catch the breeze.
In the spring, they will become iris.