If under gloaming you ambled here, lulled by whippoorwill
And dove, you would glimpse a thing larger than yourself lurking
Within her kudzu temple: a statue of aging black marble, cracks crammed
With moss as green as gray the beards hanging from a cypress.
A murder of crows hovers always about, a shroud
For her nude form, a smock to heckle and curse young bones.
And if you gazed into her eyes, what forgotten soul
You would glimpse would not be for me to tell, but for you to discover.
Copyright 2010 by David Alastair Hayden