hiccups along the trail

she sits
                    on the margins
                    of herself

                    listening

                    to creak of wrist bones
                    to beat knuckling her knees

                                       whispered wants of her tongue
                                       pearl studs of dancing shoes

                    waiting

                    simmering thoughts in teapot
                    and letting it steep

                                         through her  s k i n
                                         along    s p i n e

                    trail of veins   
                    between lungs of doubts   

                    finally, it's time   


to build a house
of her belongings                    

   

Posted for dVerse OpenLinkNight, where I am hosting, starting at 3pm EST.   
This poem was inspired from reading David Whyte's House of Belonging
Thanks for the visit.