Goldenrose

And your dark, knotted hair falls, 

   trailing along and settling 

        in the crevice of collarbone, 

ravine of spine,  

When I turned 17, it was synonymous with the beginning of the end. 

It felt like landing in the jaws of a 

hungry, 

hungry wolf 

that would maul me to pieces. 

A penny from a young girl with pigtails and a toothy grin, a dime from a poet in a baseball cap, and a quarter from an elderly lady on her morning stroll.

We were rising.

With every thread tied together, by those who wanted to catch hold —

Those with knotted breath and clasped hands 

Weaving together a dream, cast out into a sea of stars —

Child, your future is best left unspoiled, so I may be too vague, or not vague enough. Don’t be afraid of  the contents within this letter . . .