Shadow of a Bird
The fission of your breath from mine,
our union fleeting like
the shadow of a bird
climbing the rock wall that sheltered our love.
A shadow goes where a bird cannot,
and so our farewell was wrenched in disdain,
crafting a crystal cage around my breast,
the embers lost from my hearth.
The passing of years has slackened my face,
cast glow on memories like ripened dust.
My chance to hold fast to your love
skipped over like a puddle, because
I believed elders to be
enforcers of a virtuous truth,
not inured to society’s patrons of continuum.
Time perhaps imagined
failed to chisel me down to prejudice
as it did those who refuted the passion of youth—
street drains allowing love that didn’t belong
to fall discarded.
Seek, if you will, my reflection
in the waters of the fall, music for our lavender kiss.
Keep with you the girl
wearing the skin of youth,
aimée pour toujours.
Hilary Hauck lives on a small patch of woods in rural Pennsylvania, far from her native London. She writes to explore the vulnerability and strength of the human condition, particularly through cultural identity, life lessons, and the food we eat.
The Ekphrastic Review
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