I will tell the rain

And who shall I tell of your departure
This bowl of ripe peaches on our kitchen table
Silent peaches
soft and warm
Speak no comfort

Shall I tell this tree
here in the woods
far from our home
This tree
With a knothole
not unlike an unblinking eye

Would that I could cut the grass
and every trace of you were gone
Would that I could shower
and rise all residue of you down the drain
Would that I could wake
to a new room
That never knew you

I will tell the rain
The rain has become my confidant
I will tell the rain
That it might tell the sidewalk
that carried you away

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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