Past the Graveyard: Rondeau
Past the graveyard deep in snow
where icicles from boughs hang low
one woman at a headstone weeps
as memories in warmth she keeps,
all dressed in black like winter crows.
Still muted angels' trumpets blow
where frost on trees like lichens grow
and 'cross the powder darkness creeps
past the graveyard.
As by the iron fence I go
the granite gapes in pewter rows.
My heart into my throat now leaps;
her mortal love in silence sleeps
in frozen ground while snowflakes blow
past the graveyard.
11/14/17
This is a rewrite of my Terzanelle, "I Pass the Graveyard".
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