Sunday Scribblings: Lesson

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is lesson.

Eira wrote a note to her mother 
before she closed her eyes and let her hands go.

Where the wind blows steadily, in our old neighborhood, 
nothing is left.

The roads have cracked. The light and the air are no longer clear.

Tree and brush are scattered everywhere. In between the blows, 
I hear you cough.

The stone is covered in viscous moss, 
where you sowed your last seed.

Beyond the tattered lamp light and the dense fog, something awakens.

Snow begins to melt. 
The mold is still pink, but most of the shoots survive.

I can't help but smile. Our place is like honey now. 
Flowing. And fluent.

The print belongs to me. The light is real here. 

My dream no longer casts a shadowy color across a cloaked distance. 

My eyes are satisfied. I've learned to see. The wool pulled out from over my eyes. 

I'm still alone, yet I no longer suffer from a heavy heart.

I am starting to thaw, melting into speckled frost.

When the masked face whispered to you, you took his hand.

I have collected my breath; I am eager to ripen.

I am ready to die and wander again.