A Poem by A. Richardson

The Interior

If I open
there is no loneliness here
and no longing

only each moment slipping
seamlessly into the next

a perfect choreography
of releasing and becoming

like shapes that bloom
and dissolve out of mist

or cells assembling
then rupturing.

Each leaf each warm-blooded thing
is a bone and a seed

both the fruiting
and death of all things

each flight of birds
already
a ghost-trail in the sky.

A. Richardson

Autumn Richardson is a good friend of mine. She and her husband reside in England where they live the bohemian lifestyle in a cottage in the countryside facing mountains.