O’ Weary Day
By Zarah Parker
The snow that encased the solace has dripped away,
gone from yesterdays last mid-spring sun.
The cold darkness no longer holds
as his long used excuse.
He sat near the window, watching the
new sun’s flares break the day
as his hands held an oiled rag,
used to clean the metal bruise.
Held softly—the task was done.
She came to rest on the empty sill,
to grace him with her melody,
triggering a resonance within him—
a sculpted smile not of manipulated steel.
With sound she created a light,
dear, darling girl who brightened the dim.
She sang a song of hope in the stars;
he was worth her song.
Soon her sound became strained to hear.
He looked and saw her rusted belly marred,
so he took her within his arms
to keep her warm.
Night crept in and created
a cold, and her peace was known differently.
His barrel had been cleaned before
she came to sing her song, before she touched
his distant soul.
With the cold setting in and no dusted façade,
his excuse laid bare;
and his gleaming barrel gave him none.