Flying crows fade within the oaks' dark arms,
and the lake, flickering with what light remains,
like tinsel after a holiday.
Standing at my garden gate, I'm awakened to
loss again, how it shines with what's missing,
with what's missed.
Loss isn't inside lab tests. It doesn't live within
my will or all the doctors' visits, but sparkles
inside its own darkness-
a coin peeking from wet dirt, water blinking
at the bottom of a well, and the oak branches,
blatantly stripped,
blatantly open, now hold the light of dusk,
a whispering silver, so soft, so brief, so
precious.
Last Light of Winter's Day by Jennifer Mills Kerr | Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
