(C) R.L.K.
A morning like this:
First of November, Feast of All Saints;
the ‘gray autumn’
of meditative feeling,
slaty skies, dead leaves.
What has happened has happened.
Let us remember
those who have passed.
Pause.
Beside the river a willow sways.
Remember?
Too many have left
without notice. Too much has emptied
around us, yet we remain
at the wind’s edge, next to nothing,
singing what songs we can.
