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Sawnie Morris
Recalling The bed That Was A Grave
she kept falling
into — attempting to rise — while
the unseen dropped roses
From over the rim, the roses kept
hitting—
that is landing — no, they were
Hitting her
face.
As the snow,
the white of an early spring sky,
Light flakes falling onto her eyelids
that could not stay open
That tried and tried
but could not —
Following, now, the river — it was
her fate —
as in
an obligation
willfully chosen — to enter,
Or shall we say,
it entered her as the music
turns into singing
under the impulse
to make notes.
