The binding thread is red-gold leaves
Comprised of days among imagined sheaves
Of light. And darkness wings
Cold against remembered child-like springs
When first we claimed to love.
No flowers for us, my sweet.
The clammy grip of winding-sheet
Could not more cause the flesh to shrink
Than your empty hands. I think
There is no hope below
Or above.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
8/25/94