The Phone Call
Over breakfast, pouring coffee,
buttering toast,
the phone rings -
I answer.
Her sister,
she's weeping --- father dead.
Looking across the table at her,
I recall last night, her restless words.
This morning they seem to have been
clouds taking shape before a storm,
a darkness learning to speak,
elemental spells
cast against the coming of the light
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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