“…it’s like…”

A sourceless voice,

mild as spring,

spare as winter.

“…scattering breadcrumbs…”

They appear in hand,

tiny, pale fragments,

brittle as stars.

“…in a graveyard.”

The landscape shifts,

the monuments resolve –

tall, dome-shouldered,

indecipherable.

— C.Birde, 9/4/18