Requiem

A plain white cross
stands amid dun cattails
in wind like a sore throat.

Tom and Suzanne were nearly killed
one snowy night — a jolt —
the winter before they divorced.

The maples already are bare
and the aspen have gone dull yellow.
Isn’t it odd how sadness

Flutters down in broken light
from a sky of deepest blue
and miraculous white clouds?

 

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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2 Responses to Requiem

  1. Black is not the only
    color of mourning.

  2. Mikels Skele says:

    A ballad if I ever saw one. I just read a much longer one by Gary Maxwell on Fool’s Blog, also great but very different. Must be something in the air!

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