(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
 
light-smeared
and still waning
crescent moon
 
afterglow
wisp by wick
a candle
 
nameless moon—
spring light flitters
the shadows
 
after life
slow deep September
breaks the soil