yet

moss-stained stones

on a frozen morning

and I think of you

always out of sight

hidden in your box

forever gone

while I travel past

another graveyard

last sighting

a half-known tale

of silent lines

soundless figures

parents-to-be

a long vanishing

and then what was

what never was

The Wisdom of King Solomon

was not in finding out the child’s true mother

but knowing that the child should stay with her

and not some grasping, lying, phoney other.


[After Reading David Barnabas Hughes' Master's Dissertation on 'Philomena']

...of blossom

this fallen tree
this severed branch
these broken twigs
this lifeless leaf
and this lost memory...

No Butterflies Today

No butterflies today. No flowers.
No trees. No hills. No sunsets burning.
No wondrous awe. No insights clear
demanding to be written down
right now/right here. No wry asides.
No sharpened wit. No Hudibrastic rhymes.
No silence giving birth to thought.
No that. No this. No deft reveal.
No metaphors. No meanings hidden.
No eyes opaque. No new day born.
No ocean waves. No invitation.
No path. No seat. No wall. No view.
No flame alight. No skewered smile.
No sunken clouds. No crashing fear.
No silent march to unheard screams.
No staring at the clock. No poets' dreams.
No book. No page. No line. No pen.
No ink. No words to say. No end.