Bobbi Sinha-Morey
Dark Afternoons
It was so simple then
in the dark afternoons,
beneath the unbroken
clouds and placid sky
when I thought I saw
you again on the icy
path coming towards
me in the thick snow,
uncovering a memory
that lay buried not long
ago. Tears of mercy
coated my skin and you
welcomed the grey light
of my home to sit with
me in the same dusty
chair again. I listened
to your words and there
rose a metaphor. You
knew I collected sadness;
the grief I shared inside
almost sagged from
the weight. I'd never let
you go again like I did
before; and, now that I
see you, your aura has
left a grey light on my
door.
A Wrinkle In Silence
Under the vast pallor
of the sky the blanched
morning stares in like
a face flattened against
the pane. I turn my head
away from the window,
the last memory I had was
the small lake wrapped
in its wrinkled silence.
I would have loved to
crack its mirror with a
rock, lay facedown in
the snow, chip off a crust
of ice for my pillow.
Today I raise my fist in
defiance of the cold.
The lake's icy water
darkly moves under
the wicked wind, one
that has stolen the
cloak off my wintering
soul.
The Silent Light
In the silent light
my secret pity has
not been a waste
when ever day I've
been fed on the
fullness of death.
Daylight has tapered
in the darkness and
the muted colors are
so lonely when I pray.
My eyes fall upon the
shadow of the moon
and outside my window
the world has forgotten
me as if I've been living
in the dark rooms of
the past. The solace of
the wind has been so
familiar, yet it's been
unkind; the air is so soft
but its voice is like the
sharp edge of bone.
It wants to wrap itself
around me while my
unforgiven soul is
always starting over.
I am
a reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere and a poet. My latest book of poetry, Rain Song,
is available at www.writewordsinc.com.
