We Travel On
J
James McLain
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The anticipation of flowers
unseen moving her along the
path of smells hidden inside
mother earth her early morning
light of trees bending brushing
the ground with her finger the
leaves of hair hidding nothing
from view of a ghost flowing
softly treading the path the
whisper of her slow steps in
desirable fashion to the trail
as green ferns lean in to kiss
her moving calves slowing to
lovingly cup the flower who's
glory of women hood had
matured the night before
tears welling at the corner
of her eyes dreading the
thought of what was once
the great glory in her life.
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