Awakening Giants.

A rhythmic, rainy day
Live Oaks swaying;
of wind-blown,
dark-tarnished
antique cutlery,
spoons hung from forks
to a sun-porch –
by disintegrating
fishing string;
the fog clings
a smoldering fire’s
taunting smile;
a veil of mystery
suspending
everything for miles;
thunder rolls –
the molasses-slow
awakening
the Giants
from the Isles;
It’s a well-planned
last stand, tea party,
we priestesses sit,
card-tabled by
light mahogany –
a séance to the dead
and a curse for the living.

Go ahead...say somethin'!

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