I must’ve been difficult to handle alone.
My kind of trouble
makes bones of bodies,
sand of bones.
We used to bury our feet in sand.
Feet feel sand differently.
Then difficulty demanded more of us.
So we dug ourselves up
and moved to Chicago.
It was dark all the time.
We grew a tree in the street,
needing just that sort of miracle.
But everyone went around our tree
But trouble made bones of our bodies
and sand of everything else.
And sand was difficult to handle alone.
Image Credit: Ana Grave via Unsplash