After the Climb
We lost ourselves among the leaves
falling from great heights we once knew well
branches smarting our backs Sounds of rustling
and thwacks against limbs filled the soft quiet
bruising us like rotted fruit painted in hues of dusk
Coming Home
There was no yellow ribbon
Around the old oak tree
Nor was she
Under the apple tree
Waiting for him
He came back to silence
Hands still sweaty
From carrying the gun
Devoid of olive branches
About the Author
Jennifer Ruth Jackson is an award-winning poet and fiction writer whose work has appeared in Red Earth Review, Banshee, and more. She runs a blog for disabled and/or neurodivergent writers called The Handy, Uncapped Pen from an apartment she shares with her husband. Follow her on Twitter @jenruthjackson
