~unbecoming
i.
few dare to come
to the edge of mourning
where she grieves
the quickening
where soft meadow meets
an angry sun
its insistent loud rising
always argues against the dawn
ii.
perhaps you thought
tuesday a new beginning
yet it arrives
a bruised pronunciation
of beating wings
their familiar
shade of winterblue
puddle-stains
the half-drunk tree
leaves behind
as if to drown
a bird's flight
old oak slumping over
heavy-shouldered
limbs propped against
an aging sky
iii.
tremble not
for stopped clocks
a wooden box
borrowed from the grave
tremble not
the darkening as two shadows
meet
the rain will arrive soon
to spoil their appearance
iv.
she was earth
the grounding
buried syllables, deeply rooted
noticeably red and
unread
holding the stillborn
she was soiled
the river once licked her hands
and swiftly ran away
lah 2.6.17 ©®