Alma’s walk

by Cathe Lieb


Alma left the house the night before
the tin ringing of the thrown pan
still humming in the night.

Anger enveloped her like a specter
cradling her in red heat.
She stumbled past the bordering hedge
into the lane, entering the night trees that
walked in an unbroken herd towards the mountains.
Cotton dress, thin socks soon dampened with the dark dew.
Thin twigs stretched, pulling tired gray hair.

Still she walked, until morning light rose above
the towering hills. It wasn’t until she fell, twisted root
reaching to grab her, yanking her down to
soft pine needled ground
that she stopped.
And finally
cried.


* * * * *

Cathe Lieb lives and picks up rocks in Oregon. She randomly pets dogs and runs a free library out of a retired phone booth. Her house backs up to a bit of forest with a seasonal creek. She dreams of ghosts and time travel.