Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Thursday, October 25, 2012

October 24: Bare Bones

I wake up with poetry lines shimmering,
a distraction. My house, every room,
speaks of chaos. In three days,
we’ll be gone to Zanzibar.
My plants need watering.
One has outgrown its pot,
its broad green leaves reach to the sun,
the lower leaves fall away,
as I will do one day.