Winter Solstice — Diana Hayes — This is the Moon’s Work
Daylight reappears
in a disguise
of featherless birds.
One wonders about
migration.
I have considered
the rough edge
of your voice,
the slow flight
of your words,
the tattered rhythms
of your speech,
and I know
that is the chorus
we no longer
sing.
Originally published at blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com.
