They rise, or will rise
when blue light says rise,
and then, should the moon
ease past and green wind shift,
and all that ends begins to ripen
beneath the owl’s blossoming
wings in bright red pulse,
blind like a band of birds
storming heaven, only then
will they relight the day
with an orange rainbow
and a cry of silence that arches
across an earth already heavy
with alien stone, astral debris.
The day of atonement
at wing. Your lost name
earthed in blood.
Richard Weaver
Richard Weaver resides in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. His publications include Poetry, Vanderbilt Poetry Review, North American Review, Crazy Horse, The Black Warrior Review, 2River View, and the New England Review, among others. Forthcoming poems will be appearing in the Southern Quarterly Review and Conjunctions.
Artwork: Franz Marc, “Deer in the Forest I” (1913), public domain.
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