Head raised, ruffled at the sill of memory and regret,

where tangled locks did gather and grace the hewn edge,

to fall, softly, in disarray, as breath frosted cold glass,

and grief drew frozen fingertips to trace the past;

so then did questions force the word in place, the Why?

that had no answer; the need that would forever be denied.

Dry lips pushed drier shapes of lettered, rigid form

so warm it fell as frost, as new life, glittered born,

and wrote in ice the message that demanded to be seen,

in scattered image, shattered voice and ancient keen;

as silence gathered strength, made reason pause,

dismissing childhood stories;  destroying hidden cause.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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