(This poem is posted for Wordle 42 at The Sunday Whirl)
In grief she cries, “How can it be?”
Her childhood home in ruins
she wonders softly, “Who wins?
The tillers of the selions –
(the ones who launch rebellions) –
Or the ones who own the land
They’ve never plowed?”
She recalls the kitchen knife
She had dulled while carving
Into the door’s metallic handle –
(her mother called vandalic scandal) –
A star-shaped scar.
That scratch beside the latch
Is all that’s left to prove
The house had once been hers.
She steps in past the door
that leans askew against the jamb
and watches as a scrap of curtain
billows from a broken window
where she’d often stood
to hear the willows weep.
Her brother told her every April,
to stand at this same window
“If you’re patient you will hear
the graceful boughs and branches ,
weep the glories of the spring –
There is no sweeter sound
upon the earth.”
She remembers strident tones, marcato,
followed by the sweet staccato
Of the cardinals perching high,
or sweeping low across the field.
But no tree-song, so she’d run outside
And heave a childish petulant sigh
But she’d swiftly drop her anger, when
she stopped to watch an osculant* try
To safely inch its way across the yard.
Now she stands and watches swallows dart
across the sky, their avian art, and is not
moved. All she can do is count the cost
and mutely ache for all she has lost.
From her axile* home, place of her birth,
Now as an exile, lights the fuses,
(to put an end to what remains), and leaves
to start the life a rebel chooses.
I decided to try to make a poem that used all the words in the wordle, and within the context of the poem, to find a rhyme for those words. It makes for a sort of odd little story, (and sometimes dreadful poem) but it’s what came out, and considering the challenge, I like it enough to post it.
*Though uncommon words, they fit within the context. If you don’t understand these words (as my Dad would have said) – “Look them up!” 😆 If you can think of better rhymes for “petulant” and “exile,” please let me know.
For all my Gentle Readers, I wish you enough. . .