The Price of It I'm writing this on a piece of paper that was once a tree, cut down and ground and pulped, and made into something else that trees don't know is a necessity of life. Like a loo roll. First grade: I'm writing on black slate with chalk. Circles round and round. Straight lines. Grasped hard, chalk white as knuckles. I broke more chalk than hearts, that's for certain. Don't waste paper, Mum said. She knew everything has its price.
For Earthweal ekphrasis challenge. Image and poem ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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