We hear what we want to hear

For dverse.

We hear what we want to hear

I hear their paper-voices in the wind,
entangled with an ocean swell of tears,
the rustle of the sedge, a child’s soft plea,
the jangled torrent of her mother’s fears.

Within the rubble, I hear dying cries,
some choose to trust more palatable lies.

At the end of the night

For the dverse quadrille prompt.

Painting by Edvard Munch

At the end of the night

At the end of the night, pale light streams
from silver mists, the setting moon,
on star-filled waves moon-echo gleams.

As earth rolls into the new day growing,
the wind that blows the shadows away
is the clean salt wind from the ocean blowing.

Of all

A second quadrille for dverse. (It was husband’s birthday yesterday).

Of all

Of all the times, the cities wide,
with all the places you could hide,
I found you, met your eyes that night.

Of all the ones who might have been,
the rivers crossed, the mountains seen,
you wear the crown, my life, my light.