Chestnuts now litter the ground
Spaced apart in elegant brown
Curved and shiny shells unbroken
Like the last words that between us
Were spoken – dry
Dehydrate slowly as winter nears
This time without you

Where you lie garnished
With wilting roses and – to my surprise
The lilac bush we gave you sweetly,
Long ago thought dead, now tries
To bloom again

The yellow leaves fall always from the sky
Continuous in motion while you lie
In elegant, dry stillness fade
Leach out of life like chlorophyll from leaves
Impervious perhaps, or simply far
From here, your oldest daughter
While she grieves

Written September 2016, Emma Dumitra.


“Cold Lies the World We Know”


Cold lies the world we know?
“Nonsense — don’t fret about your idleness,
and where you stand, the roses soon will grow
to swallow the sky
with leaves.”

Leaves come as winter leaves.
“Does cold lie the world you know?
Don’t fret — for the falling trees
leave room for new ones to grow.”

We are — or are we? —
and words we speak are not sentences —
or are they?
In our own guilt we condemn,
make our words — sentences
and then,

Cold lies the world we know,
and the rut of time squeaks so
and bends the thinking thoughts,
the leggèd things that go somewhere,
while people breathe thoughts
and think air.

Written February 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from skiplaruephotography.com.