Poem: untitled

rough draft

Constructive criticism appreciated.

I lie snow-
sleeping, my black hair brittle
branches, mirroring roots,
in winter.  Glass
surrounds me, my productive fingers
still.  I have swallowed last summer's
bitter apple and
died.  But inside, my hands
still work away, sewing,
coaxing; drawing from the deep
and dark, dreams unfold.  A prince
arrives to kiss me, tell me
Wake up!  The spring
has come.

illustration by "matabi"