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Photo by T. Banow


The Scarf

I hear the branches weep
for the leaves
rusted and rolled below, fallen garments
revealing nearly naked figures
lanky limbs and knobby joints

Once, they fluttered
the dancer’s skirt twirling
lifting on her leg come turn and dip
now, they pigment the path of her lover’s farewell
honey-scent below his feet

These are truths I understand:
the narrow light whispers in sepia tones
arrows of geese pointing South speak sorrows
shoulders hunch with a gasp of frost

I will take the scarf from around my neck
or a blanket of low hanging stars
and wrap myself among the trees
to grieve
not in agony
but with a kind of fortitude, knowing
the bareness of days turned early dark

By Tiffany Banow