Tuesday, April 3, 2007



After the wave of pain
rushes through your veins
and out your heavy hands
it is replaced by a feeling
more formal than
black suits and ties
or eulogies in cold blue skies
dirt as stiff as your heart’s
stubborn beat that questions
each day since century’s last week

Walking down
the stillness of the ground
and the air, the road skirting around
the bare-limbed hills
disregards the line of cars
or the growing field of granite stones
rows of mossy weathered scars

Time leads us by
the still hours when we remember
as frozen plastic flowers
become faded, outlived
recollect nothing of the sun’s glow
but only the visiting chill
of those who won’t let go

in The Broad River Review 35 (Spring 2003) 29.

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