I will ignore the black and bitter,
watch the moon,
silver light on the rain-dripping roses,
and let the hushed rain-patter
become distant footsteps,
and I will send
a thousand petalled, feathered words,
silent as sympathy,
and the way the grey dove
leans in to her mate.
These are ugly days and days of beauty,
foulness filtered through light,
beauty marred by misery,
grief rocks the world to the core,
fissuring my heart.
Watch the moon, she says,
not the red sunset, and remember,
looking into the cool ocean depths of sky,
who we once were
and perhaps still are.