The sun set and rose again
twenty thousand times,
eight hundred moons before
it finally dawned, before
the alabaster beams
fanned from dark clouds
that shrouded the divide—
the other side of everything
I may never see clearly.
It was a moment, one
of her last, the watershed
like disheveled bed clothes
cast in pastel canyons
below the snow,
a glorious painting hanging
forever in my mind,
which is a short time, really,
for a masterpiece
to inspire something more.
A voice from the canyons,
a song on a bird’s wing,
the dead speak
where we bury our grief
if we want to listen.
drycrikjournal 