Memorial Bench

Wisteria frames the ground floor
sickroom and your sinking into shadow. 
Lichen-limbed, I’m felled, for grief is hardwood.
There will be no miracles. 

Hewn and pinned, I’m fixed
beneath the window, marking hollow hours. 
Beech frame ossified, I cleave to memory, weep sap.
There will be no miracles,

except you summon rain, erode my fears,
orchestrate the wind, a lullaby for callused ears.


Jayne Stanton