Trial
· One min read
Her tears rest heavy on her earthen cheek,
suffused in dark bereavement, pools of grief,
for Life fled weary from our future, bleak
in futile lessons learned upon the leaf:
For forty days of petrichor, deserved,
my sodden friends bent, grey in ritual;
still trudging to destructive work, submerged,
half-drowned. As if inevitable,
see beech's putrefaction, final sigh,
yet fungus insisting upon the bark,
and salix clawing at our evening sky
in waiting, considering Sinai's task,
and through the mizzle, crow and thrush converse,
weighing if and when to end the curse.