We survived Covid-19; we know what dying is and 2 other poems
Across altered landscapes, a fevered body trembles. Ecofeminism and Memory confront deep…
Read more โA desolate winter scene: graveyards, quiet decay, where death finds its own cold, stark beauty
Leaves have fallen and lie buried
like chocolate flakes in a cup of milk,
like dead meat in sub-zero temperature,
like a grove full of bears hibernating.
I shall write a poem for this day,
of trees that were always brown,
like decaying lichen, a sore wound,
and snow untouched by the Sun.
The world is a giant ice cove,
its posthumous whiteness making
the bed where volcanoes rest,
extinct as dead fish in the sea.
I will write a poem on graveyards.