lichen-laced gravestone
weathered white with age:
there we read our name

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
lichen-laced gravestone
weathered white with age:
there we read our name
with skies of ash and waters of snow
we wonder where does the river go
in the poppy bed
there’s a stubborn weed
i never can seem to kill
i suppose i could
say nothing happened today
but that is a lie
midway up the hill
the neighbor’s weeping fig
is dressed for spring
a gown of bridal white blossoms
shielding leafless branches.
… But my heart is
Returned to sister winter
But my hands are
As cold as ice …
Who will lift the shroud of night
heaven’s light fresh to reveal
overcome death’s with’ring blight
deign our wounded hearts to heal?
here is a hand for you. it is here
and you are there, wherever there is.
all day i have been haunted by liminality.
the first last things. the beginnings of endings.
the angel does not his own image praise
nor does the bloom amid green-bladed grass