in to the whiteness of day
rich with a somber breath
hushed not to awaken the past,
by a broken cistern and

christ like in resistance,
and loved for the blood that runs
through her,
that morning,
that hour, that moment, that single
beat of a heart, was a holy gift,
as she gave birth
to a child in poverty
and splendor.

fragile intentions
claiming an innocent title,
worthy of the words coming from
the pens of dead russian women.

i would have called to you in the brittle
aftermath of ancient celebrations,
through regiment of pine, across the frequent
winds cradling ****** new life
and you would have replied.

but all i know of you now is the vanished drops
of sweat fallen and dried,
the words echoed across a frozen war
and coming to rest by me each evening,
the purposeless push of our mother,
the wind and your curiosity.