Wednesday, March 27, 2013

An Older Wives' Tale

The wind sharpened it shears
on fieldstone
and snipped petals  off the trees.
Their  fleece scattered  on the ground,
and I wonder who will gather
the spring debris for spinning
a dream of bridal lace.
Most women here are widowed
and tell the village girls
though mountains may seem distant,
they ‘re  much too close.  Stone crates
storing the echo of war.

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