by Mason Wageman
Lightning, maybe they say.
Of the black scars that sing histories on the Aspen Tree.
Oh the ashes bone, white, soft.
Lone tree In the white desert
Bitter black bones Crooked, unbroken
Silent screams echo across mother, Empty ears resound valley wide.
Even the clouds rain bone splinters soft, white, marrow slipping down quietly.
It’s beautiful they say.
Mason Wageman studies English and Computer Science at the University of Denver. He grew up in Appleton and loves the summers there.