Still Life
Like the 9th circle of Lucifer’s realm,
all is silent and frozen and white
against a studded darkness. At first it is as if
nothing can break free of this stasis,
an icy silence like I once
broke out of in panic at its grip.
But I look and listen for more.
Indeed, the pastels of windsock are florid
against such a lack and the yellow cap
of a finch feeder makes a splash.
A fret of high branches moves.
Or is this only hope?
Some god can surely trace
all this circuitry
back until Cain’s treachery
revives Adam, sends him walking about
once more, as the dead still awaken memory.
In what vast buried vault lies
all the never-again thoughts of lost moments?
How we drop this, our cosmic litter,
thoughtlessly, intent on something else
like a careless mother come home
from market without her child.
Published in Edgz, #5 Wint/Spr 2003