Shedding's
Before dawn, I press my palm
on the windowpane,
leaning gently into the night
feeling it slipping through
cold fingertips.
Later
when sipping coffee I glance out,
there are shedding's now,
fragments and scraps,
a littering of a flimsy
day breaking light.
I wonder how so great a thing
as the deeply fathomed dark
could be lost in its leavings?
My hand wants to say
something more of this
but its bones are sleeping
and cannot now be reused.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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