glory in the grey

as if to drive us all inside

to huddle near the hearth

the grey gust batters

darts into the closing door

chilling those who dared to venture

near her

 

and yet i’m drawn

again and again

from my secluded comfort

to my window

a witness to her mourning.

 

as keening

she attempts to rend the garments

from barren, stagg’ring trees,

whipping them

for standing in her way,

before she sheathes them

in her somber shroud

 

and still

i watch and wonder

 

what could it be she wants?

a gaze

that sees her beauty

a name

that hails her blessed

a love that embraces

her bleak and piercing fury

as a gift

   

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M.C. Reardon

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