She came home alone. Emptiness.
She listened for him in the garden.
He’d often walk along the river’s edge.
Even the elms are shaded today she thought.
Her daughter called. Cried. No need to come.
Her and death were old friends now. Talk.
She saw them around the edge of the field.
Wings like black silk; glistening and blue.
Smell of bacon and eggs. Her son’s eyes.
She tugged his sleeve like she used too.
His beard like a crow’s nest bristled.
She heard the axe swing out back all day.
By the fire the moon would trick her.
In the shadows she’d see them waltzing.
Her hands squeezing his in her good dream.
Feathers grazed her cheeks in the moon’s shadow.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.