The Femur
In the desert, among mauve flowers growing feverishly in the ochre sand, a bone, completely bare. Without underwear, without a shirt, nothing. White as a small cemetery ghost, eroded with age, the weather, the vicissitudes of life. It was a femur. I put it on my desk to examine it closely. A miniature yellow flower was growing in one of its cavities. Cracked, flaked, trimmed, it resembled an undressed poem, touching in its primitive simplicity. It had to be filled out a little with nerves, muscles, flesh. I'm reading it now, well padded - an imperfect creation, incongruous for some, but I like it because it brings into my library a captivating charm of the desert.
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Author's Note
This is a translation of my French text.
Other stories by Erika Byrne-Ludwig
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Flowers in the desert, a bone. Such little reflections on nature are a welcome relief from the ugly constructions of the 8 billion of us "civilized" inhabitants who cohabit this planet.
Yes Eamon, often simplicity works better than complexity.
"White as a small cemetery ghost"
Nice!
"I'm reading it now, well padded - an imperfect creation, incongruous for some..." Nice piece. Couldn't help but visualize O'Keeffe hovering over the imagery. *
Many thanks Bill and Sam. Much appreciated.
Beautiful opening, love the colors. Love the way the reader gets to be there for the birth of the poem. Nicely done.
"Cracked, flaked, trimmed, it resembled an undressed poem, touching in its primitive simplicity. . ." Great image. Well done ars poetica.*
Joani and Dianne, thank you for your great comments.
Dianne, I responded to your message twice but it still asks me the same question. Have you received my messages sent today?
Yes I received both responses.
"Without underwear, without a shirt, nothing." This line really pulled me into the charm of the desert.*
I thought it was appropriate, Tim, and also a bit humorous...