In spite of my pain,
by John Thorkild Ellison
Inexplicable sweet strands of soured mist twist
In the echelons of salt streams,
The fist of kings is lost in the parting waves,
And nymphs are cast up with brine and seaweed
And dismissed as fish by the useless sea.
The patter of rain on the window sifts sad songs
From the memories of widows
And glistens as the wind shifts listlessly in the trees
And the last light of the sun
Kisses their whispering leaves
While candles burn in the darkness by your grave.
Grief is gentle as a broken jewel
And my heart believes there is no history
Of tears or anger
In all these moonlit fields.