Soon you will speak
to an empty room
calmed by the weight
of echoes, of space.
Alone you become
a snowflake of grief;
each crystal stalk sings
a separate ache, longs
for a moist flame, a child’s tongue.
we
calm
ones speak
as a room full
of longing tongues
we will flames to sing crystals
each child becomes moist snowflakes
each child awaits ache in emptied spaces
each child stalking the echo of separate griefs
Copyright © 2019 by Ken Farrell.