#sort yourself

and a man came, grappling at the soft dirt, ripping up yellowed grass in fistfuls. as he went about his way a soft cry escaped from his mouth. tears watered the butchered grass. he grew tired and rested on his fists, his eyes closed too tightly, facing the ground. he was not proud.

mockingbirds still sang, and roses, frosted white, still lay quiet. everything was as it was; undisturbed.

and out of the nothing in which babies are bore, they fall to rest again. in time, in time.

oh! call to that faithful, fateful mother. sweetly saint of ours. call her name quietly and sit for her. let her name ring in your jaw, softer than the word ‘chalk’, denser than ‘mouth’.

he found himself on his feet, standing on the shameful old man’s right side with his left hand rested on his shoulder. he need not say words but brushed settled snow off his shoulder and turned to walk away.