Madonna
The Madonna gives into bend her knee as She gazes
at a soul set apart.
Her posture drops
and fingers lift
as if to touch a small life.
Then She hardens,
holding Her gesture staunchly
before the first caress.
Before Her,
stems of the Trilliums were the only
flexing spirits standing against
his grave.
But the man buried here
was a phoenix,
regarded in the eyes of the zenith
so much it ripped apart for-
gave its Mother for-
Leaning over the ground that conceals him,
She manifests in cement-
unable to shudder from winter solstice
or sway in the wind,
until the bones She arcs over
transcend to ash once more.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1228 times
Written on 2011-07-23 at 19:13
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