Soft with Sorrow

by Dee Newman

High above the Harpeth,
I pause to watch, below
a thin grey sheet of rain
sweep across the meadow
through the sycamores
that stand along the river.

Far from this narrow ridge
beyond the low hanging veil
of morning mist
obscuring my despair
a seductive tune
is sung, ever so softly.

Thoughts
without wings
remain silent
hidden, forever
within my heart.

The bloodroots
have appeared and gone
from the forest floor.
Before long, the blue
and violet hue
of the crested dawfs
will wither and die.

With time and distance
as when your eyes
were soft with sorrow
I will say, goodbye.