Back To Our Roots
Approaching the door
to the root cellar–her happy
hiding place as a child,
where imaginary friends joined
her in elegant tea parties,
their freckled faces still held
clearly in her mind–she spotted
a flickering light from underneath,
like that of a candle burning
unevenly, as if a draft compelled
the flames to dance in wild abandon.
A scream rose in her throat, lacking
strength of voice. Something
scurried across the floor. Naked
fear shook the old woman’s hands.
She was birthed in this house;
surely there was nothing here to harm
her. Her gnarled hands reached
for the knob. The door flew open.
A tea party was in progress,
one chair empty.
Written for: http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/