For the dverse prompt, movement.
Each letting go
is torn from us by circumstance,
tossed on heavy seas,
a whisper caught by the wind.
We look ahead,
see only the dread of a wilderness,
filled full of other people’s roots.
Laughing gulls mock
our trailing root-wounds, red and raw,
and call out,
We fold things neatly
with sprigs of lavender
between the best sheets,
but the soil clings to our boots,
beneath our finger nails,
clings so hard around our hearts
sometimes they break.