to be a lonely tree on a lonely hill
rooted deep with grief
what once connects to me, leaves
august grieves
again, the weightless fall
small hours of my mourning
watch a whitewashed woman in her
uncertainty fade with the fog
her aimless stroll
her milk-heavy ache
watch the warbler, bare-breasted
nesting wheat with tangled verses
threading condolence the color
of poetry
lah 7.8.15
ChronicInk 