A verse libre intro to a short story I am working on with the same title. It slated to be part of my second book, Passing Through the Shadowland, from the series, The Innocence of All Things.
The crows in the meadow
sing the dirge of summers gone by,
memory its author, its composer, its creator—
what memories, if not the cawing of crows, sing such melodies?
Love passes memory by
like wind across the meadow's winter golden grasses,
not lonely, but unmet and unwanted.
Such is the world in praise of itself—
the meaning of it equal
to all the human bones buried in the Earth.
How not the world is unloved
when desire becomes the face of love?
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