The soft sigh of the willows
Seep through the shadowland
Where weeping ferrymen
Steer their canoes through morning dew.
Wild ducks, with sea salted wings,
Migrate through dawn
Shedding golden leaves like syrup fingers
Attaching their palms to the ground.
Cuts in the night sky deepen and
Bleed honey onto the horizon
Herding nightbirds and dreaming children
Gray and mute.
There is no cadence in the wind,
As if numbed by the winter forest.
There is a stench of sorrow
Shrouding all safe exits.
Even the tide is holding its breath.
Then, a blossoming of light,
Soft violet and blush,
Splitting the ocean in a glittering trail
Of rose gold and silver.
The echoing cry of seabirds,
And feathers shivering
In the eddies of the wind.
As the sun is lifted
By foreign hands
Swell on the quiet land
And as that pregnant orb
Releases its burden
unto fields and sea
A murmur of prayerful
That life will never
Seize to be.
The morning air is laced with coriander.
Thick white fog creeps up my bare arms,
The wet cold licks make me shiver
Despite the spring heat.
Crows whine on the rooftops,
Shedding black feathers as they scavenge
There is a sense of expectation in the air,
As if the fog has veiled something,
A truth that is waiting to show itself
As soon as the remains of winter lift.
My courage sprang behind the night
When dawn let out her hair,
With the weavings of necessities
Making up her diadem.
Supposedly she came to mourn
The parting of my trust,
She twirled her locks around my heart
Like ribbons cut by time,
And sanctioned my surrendery
To the everlasting climb.