In November

The bones in my feet said, “Walk.” “Put on your damn shoes and walk.”

The bones of my hips said, “Stay.” Sit down in your grandma’s chair with its creaking woven seat and stay.”

The bones around my heart said, “Ache.””Grow heavy and old; grow brittle and break.”

The bones in my hand said, “Write.” “Pick up your pen and scratch at the page.”

A chicken in the coop looks at its feet, sees talons, and feels the wind beneath its now useful wings.

Scratch for a truth, a fleck of gold in the detritus of abandoned, mouldering words that died here and left their bones.

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