The sky rubs its bleary eyes
and notices, she is gone.
The trees lift their shoulders,
The clouds turn this old tome over
and flicker their orangey light
hope like a motel vacancy sign,
They heave into this diamond void
lurching, like the top-heavy, silvery
breast of an empty flatbed truck,
Everything soft cries sometimes.
No matter what mourners
say with eggplant purple tongues
—no less diminished than
the blue foaming hour itself—
it is never too late to end.
Soft, we begin again —new leaves,
possessed of song and veins
of grace running through wrinkled
promises drying in the wind.
Allowed, all opens inward, past
the hot horizon of stories.
We are a heart shimmering with love,
~ Jill Cooper
©Exult Road, 2014