Cinnamon and Honey

by Rose Marsh

I am withered and dry.

The fruitage of the spirit,

love and patience,

had quickly rotted on my vine.

The result of too much disappointment

and too little sleep.

I went so long without the taste of rain

on my tongue.

It made me an old woman

far before my time.


Despite my age,

and crooked spine, I still dream now and then.

In a time without places,

and my days go unnumbered.

The scents of contentment

follow me into waking.


I am not losing

these things I once held dear.

Becoming disillusioned is worse

than the abandonment.

Now I prefer not to hold anything dear.

Can I be blamed?

Does it make me less human?

Shame strokes my palm,

reminding me I am cruel.

I am still human, I swear.

Look, I am all flesh and arrogance and guilt.


I don't want to die.

I don't want you to go.

I want warm mornings and to have children

and know you love me

more than any other

but that isn't an option and

I don't really have a choice.


So, I walk through my vineyard of fallen fruit,

pulling my old dreams close.

What is a coward to do?

Carry on? Take my medicine.

Take a few steps forward.

Regain a lost youth.

I want to taste beauty and love, a blend

of cinnamon and honey.