John W. McEwers (6/20/1980 / Nova Scotia, Halifax)
The clock on the wall is the only light
a soft white glow, a moon behind clouds,
I cannot read the time.
It's night that soothes sore eyes,
day spent washing thorns from my skin,
after picking too many roses
I've arranged them, they wedge into the bottom of a vodka bottle
you'll never see them.
It's not that a death has defeated me,
but that these flowers,
so many to be maintained,
live short atop an oblong stone.
Comments about this poem (Always by John W. McEwers )
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