The day is like a daffodil. Yet
the green garland of the garden,
the golden garland of the sunset
cannot dispel the dark of the depth.
On the crests of the hills,
tiny blue brushstrokes,
you can watch them wander,
the deceased and the unborn.
My heart is a fist in my chest.
My tears are grapes of glass.
No one sees them: no one sees me.
I am alone with the angels.
Christina Egan © 2017