Shadow

Introspective poetry

A whisper through the silver nightshade
passes by the mottled feathers
of a bird that has no wings; it cries out,
Stumbling through the illuminated darkness and into
the bloodstained innocence of a teary meadow.
It sleeps.
It wakes.
And although the willows smile, the clouds fall and
the bright moon and the dull sun rain-
all the while
SILENCE
keeps its peace.