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,


sir Zephyr,

your perennial skies,


Call me…demise.

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