On the near edge of summer
things are dying.
The plague has been like a
great harvester
mowing and sifting humanity’s
stalks and branches
leaving sorrow, memory, and
accommodation
strewn about
for the combine to gather
as dry statistics.
Some deaths come
When people can’t breathe.
There comes a time of burning
to level those suffocating structures.
Things die in summer,
even when death goes unnoticed
amid the flourishing of green.
An age-old song
rises from the rubble
when there is hope for the lowly
to be lifted up
as the mighty are brought down.
A song sung by the women who
witness the end
and see the beginning.
a song of Hannah,
a song of Mary,
and a song
of Billie Holiday
because all celebration
is born of sorrow.
- Charles Kinnaird
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