Winter, Highland Mills
By: David O’Keefe
Like tears, upon the skull of a widow’s groom,
My memories cling to me. Through that begotten
Veil which obstructs our truths, and womb
Of ever-present denial, my forgotten
Thoughts and loves, riches and victories,
And eroding failures live on. They change
Me, form me, and they call out to me: Free
Us, you bastard! But I do not respond, for age
Only strengthens the veil, and fear is made
Stronger yet. As I nevertheless resign
Myself to a memory of shadow, a light braves
All which I once knew. Ironic, some would find,
For as music falls upon my skull, I remember what he said,
But singers sing of northern lights, and summer nights, instead.