Aching pink

sky that mourns

and groans,

trembling,

drenching world

with admonitions.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Evergreen nods,

as grief is always so,

flexing her roots

in the marbled

earth.

Dusk in

uncanny rose

entreats:

What more?

What more

Could I have done?

Moon readies

to cast her darkness

reminding in

inky calm

that sometimes

there are no answers

there is just

the sitting and

observing all

that we don’t

know:

the vaulting

uncertainty,

cavernous,

that rallies and

quakes with

breathless ice.

Murky pink

breaks;

a balm of indigo

soothes;

and we wait.

Flies come.

They hover

and twitch,

low-pitched and frantic

in their desperate

melancholy.

Then we remember

that they too

only yearn

for sweetness.

So, we wait.