Waiting

I curl up inside a crater,
sweet grass scent mingling 
with the damp mud earth,
coating the insides of my lungs.
There are gardens growing 
among my alveoli, strangling
me as, comatose, I wait.

Purple pansies bloom across my palms 
like ink dripping from the nib 
of a feather quill, staining my skin;
dark bruises that blossom 
along my life line, tiny petals fluttering 
as my breath touches their faces.

The storm beats at my body
with thunder fists of rock
that could splinter my bones
like lighting slicing the sky in half.
It tastes like citrus fruits
sharp against the roof of my mouth,
bursts of colour erupting
behind my eyelids.

It carries winter on its back
sculpting icicles on the hairs 
of my tongue
and stopping my words 
in the back of my throat
where they quiver and blacken
condemning me to silence.

Brambles reach their thorny
hands across my torso
linking fingers to bind me.
I am a modern-day sleeping beauty
cocooned in the arms
of the earth, waiting,
for spring to come.

(Jan 2014; revised Jan 2015)
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