Process
Liz Marney
In the old back garden
the apple tree is still in springtime
she forgets that autumn exists
now that she is only a memory –
old blood coursing through new veins.
Cinder-flesh charred, bonfire, phoenix,
ready to be more than grief.
We meet where salted earth
is rolled with rosary.
Unfurl like a babies fist
like a sigh of relief
a yawn, a prayer.
We give and we pour,
old as worshipped idol
caught in a throe of life
see both the sunrise
and the sunset,
nestle our heads
into mundane’s lap.
Time becomes serrated
she grates against our skin
she teaches us to slow
to breathe deep and full
when we feel good air.
Sleep comes like sanctuary
and waking tastes like hope.
The worship doesn’t always
stick to these bones but
absolution always comes.
