I stare through a wasted parking lot
where once I filled my soul
a shopping cart discarded
empty alone
Clouds fold the sun in cold cloaked arms
draped in smoky curtains
touching the ground
in tendrils of snow
Rusted thoughts in steel framed prisons
trapped by fences with sharp barbs
grass blades frozen
like silver tacks
Industrial squalor that suffocates life
leaving remnants of what I was
erasing color
charcoal slush
From the grease stained pavement
I see bridges that I cannot reach
blackened arches
ghostly shapes
Man-made tundras conceal the visage
of springtime life and resurrection
white washed background
gray scale images
But life embraces stark desolation
and hope raises its arm like a single tree
offering renewal
a second chance
—
Cathy Joyce Lee can be found forest bathing at night and paddling the rivers by day. The connections she feels with the natural world and fear of its loss inspire her words. She has been published in 7th-Circle Pyrite, Young Ravens Literary Review, Pure Slush, Passager, the dionysian public library , NightWriter Review/The 805 and Moonflake Press.
