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Entropy
November 24, 2009
Call me…broken grace.
I call to you.
From where you set your shoes
Whence—you hang your coat
sheltered from frozen sky.
And once
your Sun dawns round
and threatens
to melt.
My voice,
calls back the clouds,
wraps them tighter ‘round your breast
so never may the snows melt.
Call me…fallen leaves.
He who names your Summers forfeit
your trees,
dear dryads,
breeze,
sir Zephyr,
your perennial skies,
sacrificed.
Call me…demise.
© Molly L., Bethesda, MD
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