I am but a wanderer
passing through
slivers of place
of time
unconsciously dropping
pieces of
my heart
like crimson berries
like seed pods
the memory of me
sometimes
floating away
on a draft
leaving only
the lingering whiff
of crisp fall air
sometimes taking root
growing tender green tendrils
in the fertile hearts of others
a taste of sweet-tartness
that lingers
on the tongue

© Revised 2021 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved

Revised © 2019 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved