It ran so subtle down her left brow
That thin line
White like a salted field
And in its wake, nary a hair grows
Off-kilter, it severs a smooth slope
Of burnt sienna
Pale sliver of a waxing moon
Tangled in shadows
Those dark lashes
Raising from an emerald pond
And glistening so slightly
Dilating
Reflecting the sky
The scarred earth shifts
As she raises the auburn ridge
And her wry smile brings the light

-Galwyn

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