The White-Lipped Hours

In silence, she leans against the morning.
In silence, she watches earth
rise to cover the jaw of heaven.
In silence, she counts the white-lipped hours
where the fields lie whispering rich rumors.

Again she listens to the high chirping of crickets
legging out their constant tunes
buds thrusting against the wind
and the sun invading secret corners.

Flickers of memory return,
planetary days from the old dark, the late dark
where the snow lay deep
until the desolation of another spring.

She remembers intoxicating melodies
bonfires of sound
their wild rhythms
and dislocations.

She accepts the gift of age
an overflowing cup of years.
Sipping it slowly
she returns it empty

and relives those lost moments
until the last swallow tail
fades into seasons
far beyond her view.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | A Whiff of Chaos