A Practiced Sorrow
You’re dressed in gray, and
tattered like the clouds
that hover above you.
Frozen
with the look of a person
who knows of his own
approaching death.
Like the willow that cradles
dawn's mist of unwept tears—
a practiced sorrow,
earned from decades of watching
the slow meandering river,
as it draws closer,
and the banks weather and fall.
Copyright © Rickie Elpusan | Year Posted 2005
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