in a field bordered by skeletal trees.
They shiver, grey bodies twisting in the
wind. Orange tangerine sun hangs high
in the sky. A reminder, of golden harvest
while we stand amongst the beginnings
of wild hay. It grows plainly and
stubbornly. I once fell in love with a
photograph of the ocean. Sky pressing
rolling blue waters. So much depth, visible
on the surface. People can vanish within
the waves. In the field we only stand,
side-by-side. Our hands do not touch.
The sky feels distant here. Grey bleak horizon
is veiled by the lonely trees. Only when wind
shifts branches do we gaze towards that
hard line in the distance.
The world is untouchable.
Rachel Small writes in Ottawa. A post-undergrad student from Carleton University’s History program, she is currently a writer and editor for AtticVoices. Her writing has appeared in SPINE, Pulp Poet's Press, and Marias at Sampaguitas, and she has work forthcoming in The Hellebore and Bywords. You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.