february is hardly new

          its weakened sky

the changing pitch of clouds

winter gauzing trees to cotton

the swells

stills a killdeer’s nest of nerves

sufferance, thy name is wind

squeezing an afternoon

mute with regard to its empty bowl

footsteps away, hard light

scatters from a variegated sun

it’s a quarter to march

told the faded clockface

and I’m distracted to places

in old photographs

          my hands plead pale keepsakes

like night in empty depths

putty these versed scars

with necessity

bend stoic through the hold

those small sounds behind breath

that wait the dead

broad fields of cloth

         sounding of flags

you are only air now

and I own your ghost

 ©  lori hamilton


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