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The Rope Broke in my hand

I tumbled on the lane

Past the stone pack walls, rocks hewed by moss

By droppings of birds and the spittle of time.

I walked in mist of the morning, past the mahogany tree. The majestic

crouch of its truck

Now branched appendages reaching towards the clouds …

That very tree once held suspended the necks of those who refused


I journeyed, feeling the morning dew on my hair, feeling the crinkle of it curl on my neck and wondered…

Why is hair important to us?

I walked touching the gravel under my bear feet…seeing the lone rise

of the sun coming out of her cave

Wishing the moon goodbye… caressing each other with their own

version of light

I ran to catch the baby goat ahead as she tumbled over the wall.

And down the glen

A lasso was late.

As the rope broke in my hand.

Carol Douglas-Welter

July 2018