Melissa Capozzi

The air permeated with the sweet scent of lemons and roasting

wood.

Rustic shades of crimson, olive and auburn tattoo the earth’s

bare skin, as needles of pinecones pepper the path before our feet.

An orange sphere with hollow eyes and sinister smile welcomes us;

helpless beneath our weight, leaves granulate to splinters.

Like branches that grow from their mother’s trunk,

one being destined for two diverse paths.

Our parallel bodies move in sync; footsteps

dance to the wind’s lyrical breath as your fingers

graze the bunched blood berries that penetrate the guarded gate.

Two twigs divorce from each other, allowing their child

to fall on prickled cement ground.

Our thoughts through silence – spoken, years of kinship

defined by an inaudible conversation as cars drive by unnoticed.

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