Her pain sings in window stains,Framed by tears of lead-glass pain,
With colours red as well as blue,
Over greens and white with golden dew.
Her scars are lines that ripple-shine,
Refracting her cold moon’s silver sign.
Her wish of longing is a prayer—
It speaks, and echoes back in care.
The winter moon is silent death,
Yet pulls her heart to beat, bereft.
The night, alight, shines with cries
Of stains in glass that’s framed with quiet.
She doesn’t need to fight it.
She accepts the sinking sand.
She stands in place with glistening eyes,
In space with breadth,
And breathes bereft.
A comet passes, or a shooting star—
Not you, nor are you falling far.
Your tears—that rise from wells beneath—
Drip dew, refracting the light of grief.
Your pain is your poetry,
Embodying beauty in simply being.
You are the golden scene:
The glistening silver moonlit green.
Continue to cry, and wishful too,
And dance upon your frozen dew.
The moon will wax, just as it wanes,
And tide will ebb, and leave its stains.
The changes are the dance itself—
The ache around you as you glance.
Don’t move. Be still, sunk deep in sand.
Your surrounds will flow like tidal hands.
