Brittle Bones

birds’ legs, dried stalks

a Chinese vase, a baby’s wave

slivers of green on dead laburnum

tracks translucent up an arm

chalk line on a pavement, a child’s logic

fingers pressing a wine glass stem

change of key on the downbeat

worn paths tracing the grass

a moon thumbprinted on a light sky

an old woman’s face, her knuckles

strands of breath on a sharp morning

cracked glaze on a bedroom jug

its pattern of blue ivy and pouting lip

the roots I clutch at on the way upBr

Janet Fisher