Mother Of Bones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mother Of Bones



Even in February
Young things are dying
Alone, as the snow increases
And the pine trees snap
From her unforgiving kiss:
I am here
Though no longer I am:
This is the shadow which
Swallowed the world,
Her dangerous dress
Inlaid with stars
And all the animals of the sea.
I am trapped in its movement,
Though there is not
Enough time to escape,
A kind of dancing tomb
The impermanency of flowers
Beneath the increasing forest,
And not a soul around
To come to me,
And toss a tear for my extinction
Cradled in the lap of
The mother of bones.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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