Contributor: JL Smith

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Wet spring leaves fall from trees
weeping for three days.
Leaves I crushed,
walking in from the rain
that failed to clean me,
words drawn like swords
in last night’s duel still inside me.

Crushed,
like bay leaves on a wet counter,
they stick to my soles,
smearing pieces across the floor
long after the shoes were removed.

I tried to pick up the pieces,
but can’t, for what was crushed,
smeared,
is impossible to remove:
evidence I know I cannot hide;
evidence I know you will see.


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JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.