Dirge Under the Stars

Morning’s drunk with the sound
of birdsong outside my house—
scent of goose-grass, mint and poplar
from the open window. Sunlight
silvers the pond where swans sail
below a willow’s sagging branches, 
while I, alone, string each passing day
without you, bead to bead—
no comfort in words not spoken.
No sound of lute at twilight—
nights worse below a ceiling of stars. 

And what, when winter invades,
lays siege, kills the living—
when snowflakes fall, cloak with
immaculate cover—you with me
such a short time ago. No starlight,
I still alone, only the faint glow
of window candlelight as I grieve
for our song I can no longer sing.
I hear only the moan of a cello.
Yuletide fires, like roses under snow,
wane, die—I drown in snowdrifts.

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About the author
Wanda Praisner, one of the 9 NJ poets to read in 2021 (NJ Digest), is the recipient of the Kudzu Award, Princemere Prize, First Prize in Poetry at the College of NJ Writers’ Conference, and the 2017 NJ Poets Prize. She’s appeared in Atlanta Review, Lullwater Review, and Prairie Schooner. Her 6th book: To Illuminate the Way (2018).