a
local crow traces the spell of night through
the
softening color of the day. winter welcomes
the
low incense of breath spilling between curtains
holding
their edges against the draft of light. unsteady,
the
years fold themselves away and a home is had
in
the memory of a clumsy lullaby. the hands of a child
relaxing
into sleep and prayers that I used to know
find
my lips again
.
No comments:
Post a Comment