Two by two, they follow the one
with the cross, seeming to trust,
as that one does, the faint glimmer
overhead. Is that dim smudge
Spirit or atmosphere? Those in rows
stay bowed over the question, meditating
on the give of joints as they bear up,
on the wet earth smell, the murmur
of cloaks and footfalls rising.
This poem was written as part of the ekphrastic Halloween poetry challenge.
Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements(Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). More of her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Inflectionist; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.
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