(remembering Svetlana Marisova)


silent bird,
shadows of your voice
stir the void
valley mist—
all the shapes words make
of light
empty now
the presence that once was
nothing but you
twilight sky—
the withdrawal 
of your veil
and still waning
crescent moon
wisp by wick
a candle
nameless moon—
spring light flitters
the shadows
after life
slow deep September
breaks the soil