How close apocalypse feels
touching this stone.
Like every generation, I imagine the wars
and violence of my age an arrow
the fire-swept forests of my youth
a type. Strange how we tame fire
within these walls in beeswax,
gentle wick lapping up the night.
Strange and sorrow when I read
just after the day’s blessing
how more than fifty drowned
in desperate hope of another island’s shore.
A light rose this morning and touched
the earth so tenderly, the blue held my face
like a warm hand. Mist had cleared and little hills
on islands across the sea came near.
And I, forgive me, was glad.
New Poem at St. Katherine Review (4 of 4)
JennaKFunkhouser 