Sometimes words leave bruises,
cut delicate skin with bright red
blossoms that only slowly turn
to dark blue and purple, eventually
fade, but are never truly forgotten.
Other times they are softest feathers
brushed across face, startling pause,
capturing breath at back of throat
for swiftest of moments, causing
a tear when gone too soon.
Are we allotted certain number
of each in season, to teach us
how best to let go, and reason
for hoarding the little bit of gold
we’ve been given?
Elizabeth Crawford 5/2/2017