last equinox,
under a marmalade sky,
I buried a box of your
empty promises,
like a bag of rocks,
tied to my heart;
and therein lies a crux –
how are empty words
not weightless?

my heart was buried
by a dried up creek,
too heavy to wear
on my frayed gray sleeve,
I marked the spot
by raking in leaves-
red, like peonies
on a headstone.