This
Drawing to the close
of a predicted death,
with much metallic howling
at losing his animal magnetism,
his satiny skin, now brittle as
paper,
glowed a luminous white
as his face melted
into the mask
of perpetual peace.
The widow, dressed in black,
Tiny yet fierce,
rustled like an old crow
as she watched
the gray caul of endless slumber
invite him to join
the nutrient cycle.
It was an icy white night
where planets seemed
to spin loose from their orbits
and sputter out
like a spent fire.
At home, in what felt
a supersized
house of pain, the widow,
deep in her own
corpselike collapse,
felt her bones reach down
into the ground
for the anchor of roots in
This
orchard of graves
This
memory minefield
This
ghostly image
On
the other shore of a river
grievers
cannot cross,
participating
in such wonder,
so
edged with mystery and
colored
by knowledge
of
the past not being the Past.
Brenda Mox
A weaver of words, a pirate of
tales, this great-grandmother sits on the shore at the mouth of the Chesapeake
Bay, Virginia, USA deeply digging her way to a poem or two. She has had
her pearls published in Ariel Chart, Eber and Wein Anthology, Blaze Vox,
Wingless Dreamer, Neo Poet and Bewildering Stories.