Procession
the chorus of
glum faced girls,
all with greying hair
have buried the maiden
too soon, now they sing
a crone’s song
while hounds howl along,
their hearts punctured
by grief’s vicious spear
where burning becomes
a state of being, & ashes
are the taste of comfort,
& forgetfulness is
considered a blessing
especially in this now, this here
crow feathers in the snow
shine clear, appear
as memoriams of dark times,
as reasons & explanations
behind cascades of tears,
stone angels’ wings
make no sound, stir
no more, never again
shall they wrap around
a dreary daughter,
hold a newborn child
born from earth &
sweetgrass, never will
a summer be so mild
in future imaginings,
or in any remembered past
longing might kill
an abandoned woman,
but her yearning spirit,
carved into the very essence
of sorrow stones
& burdened bones, will last
