Season Tide

 I. her shoes swing from her delicate hands
suspended by fraying laces
flat feet hit the cool tar of a city rebuilt
and a thousand wristwatches synchronize
cast metal hands straining to hit the mark of noon
after forty-five seconds of darkness

her face glimmers behind a constellation of worry
thin, silver strands of hair flying every which way
as her heart races with the ecstasy
of freedom

II. perpetual winds sweep through the countryside
picking up the few hues left
carrying dark umbers, oranges, crimsons and yellows
followed by darkness
she looks past the peak of the mountain
and the dark gray hairs settle down around her slender shoulders
as the gusts subside.
concerned, she walks back
as the tumult continues

III. night has fallen over the waters
small eddies and streams slice their way through the deep coating of snow and debris
once again, the city stands tall no longer
a single hand reaches up through the cold
caught by the waters.
it lingers for a moment
then falls
while brick dust collects underneath flaking fingernails
and uranium flecked irises glaze over
for the final time

IV. sallow shades of green sprout from the earth
thick knit clouds conceal incongruous shades of skylight
and a single mandolin string is plucked fervently
underneath the jaundiced sun
breathing forest fire fits of life upon the bluffs
for the fragile porcelain drizzle to attend to
children dance on the molded hillside
oblivious to the ashes underneath them
history repeated

 

Emma Banks is a 21st century 15 yr old with a knack for making friends with moths. She enjoys all things related to art + considers herself to be a Wes Anderson film aficianado. She exfoliates by pouring fresh pasta into the colander.