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  • Periwinkle Bruises of March

    A mother loves her daughter,
    yet a father can love far more... in secret.
    stowing bundles of filthy baggage.
    He wears a crown of thorns; he pleads for mercy;
    the earth belches and rumbles; heavy stones heave.

    Somewhere a mother howls,
    her fair maiden scarred; her brave knight dismounted.
    She ignores the stench of starvation;
    ripe hunger festers in the womb;
    her bare hands rip the voice from her little songbird.

    And far away bullets ricochet; men fall like cinders.
    Roaring fires snap at prayers purged from faithful hearts.
    Bound in steel, bone and flesh dissolve in hateful flames.
    Pumping fists of savages fuel the rage.
    And life dispels raining chinks of barbed lightning.

    A tender blanket of snow falls; a clean, white gauze.
    Stoic crocuses hoist their lovely soft petals;
    the periwinkle bruises of March.
    April will come; the sun will let down her gentle rays,
    and the daffodils will distill like a saffron salve.

    Pamela Wilonski

    photo courtesy of
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