By Abigail Leigh Pulled back, this skin reaches—rounding too long the past corner, it sags. Pushed forward, these eyes search—hounding too far the future hill they go blind. My body rotting—rots yet declines each offer to die. Why? Between withered lips, weeping acquires appetite: only bitter waters of what was, what is, what if? But despite the acid ache within my cracked chest its apathy at brewed breath, I find life still lifting, one more from this neglected heart of weeds—in then out like fog after a promise of a new day: thick with honey of sweetened streams and green undying meadows, lush with root of revival; for the worn—a whisper of warmth woven in wind And I wonder at my wonder’s ability to survive even amidst shadow-steeped days, what once appeared a hallowed-out-husk —the tender bud of my body rising again, toward light. Abigail Leigh is a harpist and poet from Oregon. As a self-proclaimed paradox, both a creative and analytical being, she draws inspiration from life's dichotomies: the belief that light and darkness, growth and decay, and joy and sorrow travel in tandem. Every season has a story to tell, and she writes because she is committed to unveiling truth from learned experiences. Her poetry has been published in Darling Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Equinox Biannual Journal and Clayjar Review.
Abigail's other work on Foreshadow: A Deeper Calling (Poetry, October 2022) The Mountain Sermon (Poetry, October 2022) The Fruitless Tenant (Poetry, October 2022) This Side of Heaven (Poetry, November 2022)
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