What message is hidden in the bodies
of birds falling from the skies?
Can the unspeakable ever be voiced
by bodies shivering in cool moonlight?
We are the fallen, the forgotten, the ones
who seek meaning beneath mossy stones.
These are the days foretold, the moments
when choice is made flesh and bone.
My spine is a rosary, fingers playing
the vertebrae in prayer, in futile hope.
I would have chosen a quiet life,
but my heart reaches out to the silent cries.
Winter seeks its servants, those who cower
in dark corners, but who will seek the light?