The gods like to trace their fingers in the world;
like leaves from a primordial tree, landforms
bare their veins. Clever of her to suicide this way
leaving no one but me to know. Impassive as
the dead face she wanted no one to see, clouds
hide rigor in the lines, purposeful or not, below.
In winter, sunrise looks like sunset in this distant
land, soon to be nearer, nearer, soon.
1 comment:
That is a beautifully crafted prosepoem, Larissa. And the tone is so careful and controlled whilst weaving the landscape and the person together. A wonderful memorial poem.
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