If she dies
Trapped under cloven stonethe sea water will hum
in mournful tides.
Her spirit will rise, drift
with the scent of Spring
to highland fields.
There, she will rest
graceful lady in wild green ---
her long hair trickling
into shadow, wind and grass.
And yet, her magic will be felt
in the sway of blossomsprompting fish to spawn
or that wishbone of light
looming between mountainsafter a thunderstorm.
she’ll be transparent
in our tears, those raindrops
on a forest leaf
and then pass into memory.
like rhyme to a poem
or yellow sands
to an island of sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment