The child traced her finger along the feathered black lines
The veins of the granite rock on which she sat
She recalled the tissue paper skin of her grandmother
Was she still here now where the wind whistled in the trees?
Did she wander and howl like the ghosts of nightmares
With neither flesh nor substance?
Did she drift with the nameless,
With the ones who were loved too much?
She spread her fingers flat on the cold stone
Watching as a shiny red beetle marched between her thumb and forefinger
It turned without fear and headed purposefully off in a new direction
She cupped her fingers together to encircle the little bug
Who tramped around and around before lifting its wings
And floating away weightless on the breeze
Bringing her fingers up to her eyes
She peered through the round frame her fingers made
Squinting and tilting her head to see
As the tiny creature got smaller and smaller
This is a poem for The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #201
Words: through, circle, veins, granite, fear, ghost, names, howl, empty, flesh, table, weight.