Tragedy’s Hope

An aching sort of quiet hangs suspended

As it were, between then and now

Holding in firm embrace

The muted pain of sorrow.

It is, as if, by lonely isolation

Quietness alone may retrieve

The shuffle of feet so absent

Or, catch an unexpected word

Thereby rising above the horror

Laid bare by remembering.

Against the hot orange of a setting sun

Slabs of salvaged granite lie

Beneath soft trickles of water

Forever cool, forever barren.

Granite arms stretch high in a

Perpetual prayer of need

For what is and was and is yet to be.

A sighing breeze whispers softly

Causing shadows to tilt and turn,

And again emptiness jolts

On seeing empty chairs stand alone,

Vacant, rigid, plain, they wait

Devoid of life and flame

Perhaps in the remembering

They will live for us again.

Marie Hunter Atwood – 2009

 

 

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