cloud without wind
they leapt too late, or too early
for the last aurora, baptise their
brief and tragic passing in your
soft columns, make them
light as two small moonstones—
your silence makes haze of grief;
be their third hand holding hope
to closing eyes—their way will
be the tempest, yet now be
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!