I know these leaves
are not fragile,
but I’m alone
as I brush past them:
garbage in hand,
clear sky above
sharp with dawn.
The house is empty—
no socks on the floor,
no strands of hair in the tub,
just a few shreds
of cardboard from packing
and the fragile, faint
of your missing soap.

© 2002 Christine Klocek-Lim

16 thoughts on “Fragile

  1. This piece can so easily strike, no, more like brush against, a core. Like a gentle peek, a somewhat lingering glance, at something unspoken. An exquisite poem, one that, to me, seems to relate to a previous one here entitled “Though Blind.” Both are indeed beautiful pieces. ^_^ I’m glad to have come across your poetry. I’ll be dropping by again for more. ^_^ Be well.

  2. Ahhhh, lovely. I love the contrast between the leaves and the fragile scent of soap (and the fragile narrator). Such good, “real” details throughout, such as garbage in hand and no socks on the floor.

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