The Guarded Wound
If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it were, Too heavy!
This poem is in the public domain.
Listen …
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.
These be three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead.
I know
Not these my hands
And yet I think there was
A woman like me once had hands
Like these.