A Wedding Song For the Gods
Her hands,
heavily wrinkled,
touch the thorns
on the rose.
The petals-
color of the pinprick
of the blood on her finger-
drop to the table's
cherry bark surface.
The petals are flour-soft-
her leathery grasp
feels like sandpaper.
She views the morning,
the pines and maples, and birch,
their branches cloaked
in their shiny garb.
The song sparrows congregate
as the yellow -daisy tints
of the sunrise
softly touch
the ruby-sienna bricks
of the tenement,
in which she quietly yearns-
like the hush..
of falling snow-
to bloom again..
in a Summer garden.
.
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