Photo by Jerry Wang on Unsplash


 Ghost writing the sting of the wind
 Shivering spring day
 Reminds me of my
 Ancestors who rode
 This way
 Battling this same wind
 As they trudged to the pit
 On early shift.

This connection, now, is
 Deep, sunk into my blood,
 In all that I mean
 When I say these words
 In tones that rhyme.

Words that would’ve
 Carried meaning still
 In those cold, hungry days
 When this same old
 Northern sky
 Still pleased the eye of
 Those infected with
 The old disease, of love.

And, in this frail copse of tender trees
 Glimmering with dappled sunlight,
 Sunlight casts strange shadows over me
 And over the scattered poplar trees,
 Over hawthorn bushes
 And over delicate blades of grass
 That do not last.

In this old place and time
 A mottled moment’s respite
 Is offered me
 As I watch these birds
 Swing high into the rare grey ghost-ridden

 Then, just for that
 I am not there.


◄ Pain

The second Armenian genocide, 2020 ►


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