Wednesday, October 10, 2012

(Rill)


To say it’s all, your words become a song
a rill that runs through dappled ground and trees
I twist it, warp it darkly, turn it bleak:
mistakes fall broken, hopeless, choked despair.

Blood amber, slow and hopeful, conjures beads
of patience orchestrated; weeping pines
hold conference, deep séance through the fell
harsh winter of this dance through shattered spring.

Rachel Westfall
October 10, 2012