Christina A. Sharik


pasture lands smothered in snow
the thing we share before you go
golden on an old and hallowed ground
a long and lonely peaceful sound.

Silence… is
when the cannons are finally hushed
when a baby’s cries are finally shushed
morning’s icy glitter on a winter stream
what you hear when I want to scream.

Silence is…
the grief for people gone before
what happens after the slamming door
when you say goodbye and board the plane
when you go, and I remain.