Silver river and the cleaved land like it never knew the earth
Aging ash thirsty for the water somewhere,
By there comes the listless traveler
Walks the roots, the river bank, beckoned by the quiet,
The unkind cold breaks across his limbs
With dare in the clough of wind.
And comes there, the buried coffins, tumbled into soil
His parents of age both
Lying in the perfect darkness
Voices passed upon the forgetting;
He picks up the small stones, counting
Tear troubled in the momentary silence.
Fresh silver water makes follow soon
A noise of spring coming
A noise of leaves mingling in their robes
Rain fragilely on the graying winterscape;
After day, his feet tread possible near away
Coming merely in the rareness of his youth.
Copyright © 09/06/2016 lance sheridan®