Calan Gaeaf
       

When the soot-cheeked children chip
the purpling horizon. When dust resettles

in the shuffle ruts. When the sky holds
its rain long enough for lips and palms

to crack. When the words to every song
go mumble. When the last leaf strikes

the winter floor. When the world
shuts like a too tired eye and the pen

scrapes the paper and the hand scrapes
the paper. When the lullaby singers

go hoarse and the underground river,
though blind, finds the sea.

Tweet
Copyright © 2021 John A. Nieves All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission