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
account.

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

Reports say that spring is now in
season.
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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