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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment