Bells Of Dusk
Your hand grows gnarled.
It makes a fretwork shadow on my face.
The judgment of the mood is Biblical.
I hear you counting red leaves as they fall.
Frost angels write
Their thousand times ten thousand names on panes.
The heavy candlelabra of gray trees
Lifts ribbon flames of fading warmth in prayer.
Is this the end?
The woodsmoke of the dusk is indigo.
Your gnarled hand has become less intricate.
Its pressure no more than a passing cloud.
The bells of dusk
Ring clearly from an Appalachian height.
The cold, gold force of sunset is a shout.
Silence reverberates in brevity.
I stand alone
My cheekbones brushed by high white peaks of wind.
The ancient whisper comes from everywhere,
'This count includes the tears that make a sea'