Fractured Shelter

My nest has fallen from its tree.

She isn't the me I know. Her ink has dried up. Words flowed from my lips soft as rain. I wrapped lyrical phrases around me like a blanket. My pen was always moving. She is a fractured shelter.

She gathers twigs to weave together, but the winds of change are blowing too hard in these stormy days. She is naked and hollow, the cold blowing right through. My pages are missing. They are leaves scattered to the wind.

We huddle inside and wait for Spring.

- wit -