your ways are these:
when winter stilled the
lower fields and
the farmhouse burned
you stitched bluebells
on a blanket and
dreamed about
the child

but, he died
yet when the azure waves
swept free again
in the bottom lands
you left the new house
with your camera

your letter spilled the photograph
the meadow, or
the gleam of God
look, you wrote,
see how it is:
life returns
when robbed of death

--Jody Serey

 

Copyright 2004 Jody Serey. All Rights Reserved.