Rivulets
I question and I wonder
at this book halfway through.
I hear the rustling
of unwritten pages,
words of truth
yet unspoken,
where wisdoms
tenuous uncloaking
is but a mind frame away...
bordering on memory
enscribed within the tree.
Perhaps, at last...
when trusted page is filled
I'll have learned how to heal,
or how not to grieve.
But these rivulets
of honesty,
coursing down
furrowed valleys
are etched deep
in the parchment
then seared by a soul
becoming
almost
unbearable to know.
Lisbeth Hill