A Thought for Every Word

Vacant Trees

pale pewter cashmere blankets the sky
rain falls on vacant trees and frost hardened ground
under canopies of twisted fibers
running to find cover from the liquid silver
his back labored and sore from the monumental task
he walks in the rain and in a moment of sweet release
steps out from under the shelter of heavy raiment
and turns his face toward the pale pewter cashmere
cast off the guise of ordinary and copacetic
to walk out and flail against the drops laden with renewal
humming to match the beat of the relentless patter
his face wet with tears shed for love lying deep 
and the funeral progresses for one he called beloved
other names sit like the scent of honeysuckle on his tongue
he will not come now to hold his hand or stroke his brow
his heart hears only the sound of the rain on vacant trees

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