Bones

My bones feel empty.

Where has all the marrow gone?

Have they been broken?

Split by the storms and harvests?

Did all the juice drip and run?

Swept away by the passing of seasons

By the Tidal forces that make so certain,

That nothing is left untouched?

Is there anything left?

Look.

See.

Crack it open.

Taste.

It is bitter.

It is rotten.

But there is so much left.