Red Ink

Red Ink

Sparrows scatter before me

as I walk--

hurling themselves

against walls of wind.

Dead leaves

find breath enough

to scurry

from my path.

I offer my arm

to a mosquito--

but she will not land.

How can I blame them?

Memory

keeps taking out her pen

and circling

your name

in red.

by Sarah Fairchild 1981

~ ~ ~

Notes:

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