elegy

 

I’m no more than the exhale of a seen December morning

by way of Mass

The bathroom already full of mourners

I’m a place on a hill

Lost of light

From a latitude forgotten 

Where the sunflowers don’t grow so easy

I’m of the low brush and wind, where my mind recalls setting circles around the dead.  

Blackened from fingers

Last words and going

That is my legacy,

Only the small and lowly remains. 

The moss and five petaled flowers.  Purple and of heather to the sun.