Even the Trees in the Lake are Burning

When the age of fire came,
the fragile days of ash,
we picked through each black hour
to find a name for loss.

In charcoal flower fields
we picked our black bouquets,
laid black wreaths upon the ground
and measured out the graves.

We mourned in ghosted smoke
until the midnight broke
and fell upon our backs
when the moon was new.

Then black and black was all.
Then blind is what we were.

Copyright © 2005 Muriel Zeller All rights reserved
from Slipstream
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission