IN MOURNING LIGHT
Against the thick impasto sky,
a stand of cottonwoods
pentimento, green and old-gold
share a canvas
a which-came-first, which
overlays
heartbreak in cold light.
Nothing moves
except a ghost-rabbit:
once, twice, gone.
THE SNOW’S FRAYED EDGES FINGER NO SUN
You’re a frail, troubled slope
beneath our flowered quilt. A coarse
rush of breath
shot with misery
and barbarous wheezy gasps.
Tiny hand-sewn stitches, white
on white, baby steps,
sinuous tracery,
on fading lilac blocks. I feign calm
so you’ll stay calm.
The snow’s frayed edges
finger no sun. I seek
tomorrow’s answers
in low criss-crashing
patchwork clouds
the tight-knit winter branches,
our cold stony road.
A scan
will forecast suffering
or chance of giddy shine.
Meanwhile you snuggle
toward me. I stroke
your brow.
The barren wind mouths witchery
and whips up stormy dreams.
Like this:
Like Loading...
Related
Mason Street 