Jul 21
in the swollen grass
there is wither-month
upon which the brutes
come and find shelter
hewn in shape
of grief
moth-bitten maps
torn in halves
theirs the flesh
of seasons
ripened canaille
of shorn sculptures
bruised fingers
that say
"there is no meadow"
as though harvest
pours in spring
and sparrows spiral
in salted hymns
so shall the night hour
wilt the porcelain moon
hung against the
slivered brume
gathering quietude
on the shelves of the
shepherds
This poem reflects on a place that appears serene but is steeped in quiet sorrow. What seems like a meadow becomes a symbol of memory, decay, and disillusionment. It speaks to the weight of time, of seasons that don’t heal, and of fragile beauty clinging to loss — where even sparrows sing lament.
