Not yet morning

It’s not yet morning and I’m up

the dark only just lined with silver.

The wasted night’s final chill

crawls up my back and down my fingers

while they curl around my pen.

I shiver…

 

Is it my fingers that are numb

or has the pen turned heavy?

Maybe the paper is too bright

the light is still too pink

the waking insects such a nuisance.

Maybe…

 

And if it’s not any of these

then it’s the words that lost their meaning.

Conventions, rules, syntax and metaphor

suddenly prove inadequate;

her death too soon to contemplate.

I’m weeping…

 

Words just fail me but memories persist.

I look around me: so many things;

voices on tape, and video,

and photographs, sooo many photographs;

shadows describing what once was

and what one now misses.

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