silence has silver hands and the rain
eats marble to softness. i stand
in the old cemetery, slit open my throat
to let the song spill out, an elegy for
forgotten names unetched, erased.
the years lichen and blur. but even
here, the cedars stretch roots deeper
every winter, lift branches higher
every summer. if i stand still enough,
i can hear the moss grow. in the downpour,
the worms lift, joyful, to the surface
i can’t get my tenses right: built/build,
write/wrote, alive/dead. through it all,
we’re an ongoing act of creation.
{ a.s.w. || find me on patreon }
