Pillars of Salt

I sprinkled cinnamon outside my door,

whispered to the frames,

"only let in warmth,

keep their laughter outside

in the cold, where all things mournful

belong".

I wrap myself in a fisherman's cardigan,

Making clay out of tear-dried salt

and this divine earth that raised me.

I hear them jeering while I'm carving

all these stones with blistered hands,

Chisels rusted - they spent too long

curled, sleeping, unused in the moss.

They say I'm just shaping rocks

in silence,

for a game nobody wants to play,

a forlorn girl

trying to conjure gold

in a foundation poured strong enough

to hold a coliseum,

its rotunda gleaming with hand stacked dreams.

I have to believe,

if you just... keep... building,

someday, someone will see.

Even if the beauty is found

in a solitary, once lovely column

...when it's ancient.

When it's crumbling.