Poetry
Lazarus Box
Here, from my box of precious things: a handful of rose petals dry and wither-burnt; a smooth stick in the shape of a perfect “y;”
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Here, from my box of precious things: a handful of rose petals dry and wither-burnt; a smooth stick in the shape of a perfect “y;”
(after hearing Morten Lauridsen’s Magnum Mysterium at a friend’s Wedding) The hush falls like soft-feathered snow, as light takes its leave. Clamoring thoughts, like tired children
Sing sanguine seraphim, make holy our sorrows, singe them sweet. Cleanse the red remainders of a day gone wrong, splattered like a Jackson Pollack
