S. Brackett Robertson
she will be crowned if she passes that gate, down the white garden’s path
grown in winter, nourished by death’s frosted hands
only the ghosts of plants grow of seeds planted in snow
the color of steel, they rise in waves,
scattered into shapes without names
she cannot cross their tangled guard with words of joy,
languages kept underground, frozen still in bulbs of summer.
Instead, she dances, footfalls collecting among the vines,
pushing faster, whirling through their grasp
slowly crossing, passing through towards autumn’s light
S. Brackett Robertson is often found up a tree. Her work has previously appeared in Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium, and Mirror Dance. She frequents museums and would like to visit more ancient cities.