There was a garden statue
underneath my weeping willow tree.
and oddly enough missing
his right hand and one big toe.
Each day during my stay
I was ushered to the garden to commune-
with my id and dear old Francis.
Bunny slippers with a pink flapping tongue
that drug the ground
and a frayed xanthic robe
were my vestments..
A gift from a well-wisher
or the wishing wells gift..
I would simply sit
underneath the protection
of that moldy mortar chipped saint.
Sun is therapeutic
brightens all the scars usually hidden
and fresh air
is healthy unless
you have hay fever-
hard to hide
a give away is the hacking and wheezing.
Neither or both
depending upon which sage
you spoke with that day-
imposed upon my conversations with
dear spore ridden
in lulls of our conversation
I watched a kudzu vine
inch and snake closer to
the apostles feet.
It was as if Hydra had left the waters .
By the time my sojourn was over
or just begun-
I was absolved of my sins and
St. Francis was truly bound
by the vines of the tree nearby.
My name is Carol Krauss and I am a
weaver of words. I have been writing all my life but have just begun to
publish my works. I excel at visual imagery-the pretty and the ugly, anything
Southern, sanity or the lack of, and the ever famous women's issues. I
currently live(with my daughter Kelly) and teach English at a private
school in the Ft. Lauderdale area.
To see more works by Carol, visit her
Other works have been or will be published at TheRipple.cjb.net, Shadowkeepzine.com,