A Canticle of Low Origin – A Poem

A mystery.
Torn into opposing directions.

The feel of her smile.
The knife blade not quite
sharp enough.
Clippings which
provide a more detailed

How stripped bare her humanity
spilled into rivulets
under the gathered clouds reflecting a red sun
Geese flew in the sky as
the forest darkened.

Reports say that spring is now in
That love has been distilled.
There is so little for concern.

I mark how her elbow bends
in the last of autumn’s
fallen leaves
and hum a canticle of low origin.


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