Two doves on the neighboring roof.
Two pots of cyclamen aflame
in quintessential purple, pink,
out on the deck in shadow still,
two crucibles of holy flame
calling to mind the Delphic oracle
(priestess innominate and unobserved).
O cyclamen, phenomenon of color
burning at the verges of the morning chill,
the chill our hearts have taken on themselves
this February when the old divine power
adjured by the oracle’s flame
is no longer divine or even old, revered,
its intent merciless and earth-focused
instead, the flame only
a moment of ephemeral brightness
inside the dolorous shadow. Shadow
gorging, spreading, encompassing,
the verge unquestionably breached.
The doves have taken flight;
the cyclamen wavers a little, burns on.
image: Christie B. Cochrell
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