Mist.

The tension in her bones on her wedding night

The clutching of the dress, with the plump fingers of a child

That swinging movement of the muscled arm, wielding the axe

The swaying of the forest in a hurricane

The slight arm brush that is never noticed, on either side

The staring out of a bus window, by weary eyes

The carefully carrying a full pitcher of water

That little scar , now clotted blood, now flaking away

The quietude of a dying brook

All meet in a single ever prevailing hush

The hush that hangs , a mistress of the mist

Not loving, not crying, not even sighing

She watches.FullSizeRender (2)

 

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