deep shadow purple
and heavy with dew
i pick morning violets,
small water orbs
petal cupped
refracting silver and spring,
held by the sweet scent
of every lifetime spent
wet-kneed in the morning,
picking quiet violets
forest edge
it is a lonely sound
the distant hollow thud
of the gravediggers spade
forest edge
in the morning
but death
has always been
lonely –
unwanted, unsummoned
unexpected
even when it is
inevitable
yesterday old brannon-pony
died late evening.
used up his time a decade ago
yet lived on
and still he greeted
in his low breath voice
and scoffed his food,
gums squeaking on
toothless green peaches
late summer windfall
on the lawn
and still he walked
on his doddering legs
and still he dreamed
in dapple shade
beneath the trees
in the morning
forest edge
we sat with him,
jem and i,
cloud sky opening
to the stars beyond
as night cold
drew close
sat with him
where his legs had given way,
where his breath had slowed,
where warm beneath
his winter coat
fingers and palm
listened as the beat
of the great mother drum
in his chest
became the silence
between stars.
forest edge
in the morning
i picked violets
and forget-me-nots
as offering to the gods
of little things
because who else,
in the great wild
heaving of the world,
would notice the passing
of small a old pony –
who else would know
the empty space
he leaves benind
in the morning
forest edge.
Linking to Lonely Town over at Desperate Poets.
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