as she trod into the forest on fire,
anger that surfaced like moon phases
a cycle predictable, yet not.
At certain times, wads of crumpled paper
torn from notebooks where she kept her words
created a path through the tall timbers.
I once followed that trail,
inhaled the piney aroma--
each breath a seasonal treat
reminding me of times
when serrated edges were leaves
pressed between encyclopedias
and paper chains of red and green
served as countdowns to Christmas
until a metal-like smell
broke me from my reverie
and that's when I saw her
up in a tree
crying tears of rust
down upon me.
PU Verse First: Right Under Your Nose
3WW: disgust, pout, wad