Stones

the thorn that drew blood grew from the memory

of the honey locust I planted

we had passed by the stones that once held our names

through the burning doors into a forest of backlit dust

we tasted tensions on the wind

the singing sands turning black as we took to the shallow water

and I recalled the sound of startled birds, of a camera lens shuttering

purple lotuses peeling in awe under the scorching eye of the sun

wet feet on the warm rocks

dreams dropping where they burned

as the roots grew stronger

blood passing from heart to hand , like rainwater out to the leaf

all the lanterns salvaged in the sharp fields of night

developing hermetically like prints

by the ceremony of innocence