Don’t weep for what might have been.
Remorse is a black hole infested with
jagged splinters of glass, razor sharp
reminders of misplaced trust and
hollow promises.
A dove flutters in the talons of the hawk,
resigned to what will be while a dozen
sparrows watch from a sagging power line.
Soft gray feathers float in circles on casual
breezes, then disappear into the green
leaves of marigolds and magnolias.
Predator and prey glide as one into
the eaves of the red roofed barn nestled
in a tall stand of corn.
Not far away a songbird, ignoring, indifferent
to the vibrations of anguish, rises from the
highest branch of a time scarred oak
to pronounce a benediction, perhaps a
blessing, on the wounded and the wonderful.
Each in its turn.
Each in its turn.
Sonoran Desert Writer 