I can't

The sadness shook the
rooms of her soul--
empty, dimmed, dry on those
heavy wooden floors.
There was an elegance fading
and around her face sang
darkness like a scarf.
Old Will sings a song;
she is young, but
her heart is weary with
the sighs of
a brother at war.
By these dying ivory doors
sat she, with
needle and thread on
her grandmother's chair.
Letters by the old crows lie
crumpled and stain'd with
the sweat of a man, his
voice alive in the pages:
he shouts, he cries, he tells of
stories of blood, of when he was lost.
But the sweetest tone is found
where the spaces meet the words
tucked beneath the creases...

"I love you"

The birds ache and flutter as
she cries her way home


photo