My grandfather lived
in a rustic house near a sloping cool branch with slipery stones
and verdant woods
I walked slowly toward the treeline where
mystery lay
and there in the shade of autumn’s bough
i see darkness rising
close of day.
but death,
a far
closer
angel visited then and will and again because
it is unchanged, like the virgin nest of the wip-poor-will
though unwelcomed
tender unforgiving visitor on the side of the hill
where i last heard his voice.
away
This work by Matt Tullos is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International