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Psalm 727

By October 30, 2014 No Comments

For the Director, to the tune of

“The Cup of Mourning.”

Dawn, in her tattered veils, wafts
one last breath over the pond
like a bridal train;
the ivory mesh snags,
opening on a rain-pearled leaf,
a peeling scroll of birch
inked with cryptic lines—
alas, no message there for a widow.
French press steeps
as layers of gauze keep parting,
God’s hand there, stirring
a glimpse within
morning’s swirl of cream
marbled through coffee,
easing this ache we call alone.
She misreads it as all one—funneling
down the angled
steam, the stem of a spoon:
the cup half-full, after all.