Things seem less important down here
in Vondenbash Hollow.
The ear-piercing scream of
white-knuckle sirens
don't wake you from your sleep
en route to a seventy-year-old
dying man.
Instead, frost breaks the weakest
branches of an old sycamore
that lurches tiredly over
a spring, sending that part noiselessly into
watery solitude.
In Vondenbash Hollow there are no
thunder-like exclamations that
signal the end
of a seventeen-year-old life
because of a back alley scuffle.
There are, instead, the snowfalls.
Cold; indifferent to the outside
awning,
which whines under the
weight and cracks, landing
safely into the numbing cold
below.
In Vondenbash Hollow we
mourn the insignificant.
No comments:
Post a Comment