What speaks of tenderness in the dead-blue
aftermath of human-induced horror?
When husband and wife are at odds,
seeing only the diseased boil of slaughter
then non-existence, when the pregnant woman
finds no seat in the midst of a
What speaks of holding on when the world is pale
with grief and parents mock their children’s love
with coldness and condescension?
What eye can see divine magnificence before
its doom? Or find greatness in what
society has ignored or condemned?
On the rafters a single flower is born.
I look to that single flower, like I look to spending
the afternoon with the ones who have endeared,
like the pulse and turn of my infant within
or a brief morning solitude –
open for interpretation.
Copyright © 2004 by Allison Grayhurst
First published titled “Only” in “The Screech Owl” and “The Screech Owl” printed volume one