by Tammy T. Stone
a morning just
before rain,
under a swelling grey sky
an incense dome enfolding
gauzy
hands brushing dreams to face
monks in procession in a
world of honour and
not forgetting
chanting, the souls of
the sweet dead and discarded
my bursting heart
listens to a mournful
purple elegy
little beings piling up below
on the pyre
readying for ascent
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment