The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by E.K. Steelwater
The Unfolding
The freight train’s long-drawn cry was a draggled plume of sound, a stream running uphill past the summer mansion held up by its porches and our voices, muffled in night’s hot velvet. Ice in our glasses was better than money until the roar and shake of time unfolded our winding sheets. Now that blue snowlight fills my window like the light from a grieving heart, I take up the rusting needle threaded with those nights. The tatters that I sew are meant for us, who could not hear beyond those thrumming nights the freight train call us, one by one away. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |