Robin York © 2007 All Rights Reserved
Timor mortis conturbat me
Confounded and afraid of death—
the small bat the cat brings in,
my own, and yours, impending—
I sleep uneasily.
Our children roam in other galaxies;
you wear silence like a favorite shirt
and will not dream.
the dear departed in their cribs,
ash and bits of bone dispensed
from pier and shore, feeding the river.
There’s snow, of course. We don’t
wonder at the hard-packed lack
of color. And those shacks
on frozen lakes. An elaborate village
built on cold. The season is right
for catching fish through ice
in murky water. But we pass.
Play no longer serves a purpose.
Zambonis swish by. At night,
the moon unblinks its eye,
and we see clear to the treeless tundra.
Moose stand, black gantries
beside the road. The world
an unending plain. No one sighs,
or sleeps, or wishes upon a star.
No one is born.
E. Louise Beach: At the age of 55—after having raised three daughters on my own—I found time for poetry. Four years later, I have two song-cycles, a chapbook (Finishing Line Press), an opera libretto, and several small press publications to my credit. I’m thoroughly enjoying this world of words!
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