Cypress trees in silence tower; through
by Seamus O' Brian
unstirred branches sunlight pours,
liquid blades of golden water
knife their way through leafy dams.
The swing creaks; its rusty springs
my therapist now. The cool
breeze unafraid to touch me
softly, almost like affection,
not unlike mercy.
Placid beams of light warm my hand
in its languid grip of the rusted chain.
The arc of listless toes sun-bared swing
through the coolness of April's indifference.
The sun and breeze brush my skin
a leper shunned by all who fear
the disease in my heart, the knife in my hand
but these angels of mercy fall unmoved
from one acquainted well with the gates of hell
that yawn within this leper's heart, black and fell.
Skyward, my eyes discover
tender green shoots of the cypress monarchs
swaying gently now, dancing in the warmth.
I hear a whisper in the breeze.
Perhaps it says, 'Spring'
but it could be,
For spring comes to lepers, too.