Twelve months in--hopeful
and messy with tendernessa windy, wingless sky and I
my mother and another ask
if I mean to be alone in snow
as time ripens, holding me in
as time ripens, holding me in
a clamoring for brightness, yet
as I add in days by the handful
they grow distant, dimming in
history: years, people, places...
it has been such a long journey
surely, it wasn't all just to die?
it has been such a long journey
surely, it wasn't all just to die?
No comments:
Post a Comment