few dare to come

to the edge of mourning

               where she grieves

the quickening

where soft meadow meets

an angry sun

               its insistent loud rising

always argues against the dawn


perhaps you thought

tuesday a new beginning

yet it arrives

a bruised pronunciation

of beating wings

               their familiar

               shade of winterblue


the half-drunk tree

leaves behind

as if to drown

a bird’s flight

old oak slumping over


limbs propped against

an aging sky


tremble not

for stopped clocks

a wooden box

               borrowed from the grave

tremble not

the darkening as two shadows


the rain will arrive soon

to spoil their appearance


she was earth

               the grounding

buried syllables, deeply rooted

noticeably red and


holding the stillborn

she was soiled

the river once licked her hands

and swiftly ran away

©  lori hamilton


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