Monday, February 20, 2012

by Beverly Ewart

On the hot ground,
abandoned tears -
wrung out and left
to disappear -
are tiny rings
of congealed dust
that testify
to tortured trust.

In the night,
on bones of tears,
the fluid flesh
takes shape – appears.
That dusty place,
as dawn draws near,
shall drink of springs
that once were tears.

1 comment:

  1. Well done, Beverly! For a simple poem, there's a lot to explore there.