Running back and forth across the wind,
racing the very tides of change
as though you could turn back these last hours or even escape them,
but the grey light that filters through your billowing hair
is already getting sunny,
and the minnows in the pond below
are waiting for me to gift your body to them,
so even as your long-pitched cry of terror launches,
I throw out my hands to guide your fall,
and I hear now the cry of pain, and how suddenly it ends.
Oh my darling, do you not know
the beauties of a sunless throne?
September 27, 2011 Tuesday