Memorial, or, The sun cannot break its shackles…
Â
Midday softens under the fog-weighted shroud,
A black-winged bird scrapes the slate-gray sky.
The sun cannot break its shackles of sullen cloud.
The crow cries, harsh and unavowed,
Your memory arises in reply–
Midday softens under the fog-weighted shroud.
I forgot the time the words were said aloud,
And then I forgot the way and words to cry–
The sun cannot break its shackles of sullen cloud.
The stillness of that moment returns to enshroud
Me in this autumn day in July,
Midday softens under the fog-weighted shroud.
Again that cry, like yesterday spoke aloud.
Though summer wings from winter memories fly,
The sun cannot break its shackles of sullen cloud.
But who could stand before the sun unbowed,
And, unblinking, its simple rays defy?
Midday softens under the fog-weighted shroud–
The sun cannot break its shackles of sullen cloud.