Lux in Tenebris

And in the end
What time for you and me?
When the us-shaped hole has shifted,
And the steady crumble of
Formerly compacted loam
Is on our bodies and our faces;
What will who we are now be?
Does indifferent time know whether
We are gifted or departed?
Will there come another Summer?

Land left fallow and unfriended,
Fields fold backward, seed and stone.
Leave the grave of love untended.

And we vanish into meadow
And the grasses bend above us
And our wasteful, piteous struggle
Is the wind among the grasses.

Edith Shatwell

This entry was posted in Reflections.

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