By Your Power, Death
I shall not ridicule you, Death.
A vulture on prey,
You have plucked the last stale leaf
From the tree of age ended.
The sun melts now
In your liquid waves of fire.
And your bleak mist on hazy hills
Smothers the bent birch,
From which you built your vessel of doom.
I see the gull:
His body, dismantled and gray;
His wings, unsoaring and broken.
My heart lies crushed in the sand,
Where I weep unnoticed,
For I am the last to feel your kiss,
The last to enter your gate of cold iron.
By your power, Death,
I dare not ridicule you.
Copyright ©2018/03/28 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com
Image: “Death’s Power” Digital Art ©Martha Harris