renderings/ poetry / yoga / running

the drops on my eyelashes, are broken promises from another time and place. A place so desperate, I no longer allow the drops to fall. They sit as ice, never quite evaporating, even in summer's heat. The ice begins to melt, begins a slow progression towards the tip of each lash, I catch it from the fall. Holding each ice sculpture as a portrait on the tip of each lash, a time and place I run from. I am building an ice garden, an exhibit I choose not to see. Hoping summer melts the pieces, and waters my roses...pinks, purples, crimson..........the colors, are all that I bleed...