Red Ribbons In Knots

Raindrop down the window pane,
slow-sliding upon the glass,
as a teardrop spent in pain
after storms have come to pass.

Two birds hop along the lawn,
cardinals singing acclaim,
two red birds praising the dawn
and the youthful Springtime’s game.

Raindrops are infrequent now
and the wet cows chew the cud,
the thunderhead calms its brow,
though the fields are still aflood.

Somewhere downhill water flows,
cresting like a Sunday hymn,
singing of what loose silt knows
when taken from where it’s been.

Silent, the old farmhouse squats
within the vale, near the stream,
while the widow ties in knots
two ribbons within a dream.

The ribbons are scarlet red,
once entwined—now unraveled,
undone by the restless head
in which they twined and traveled.

She tries to knot them anew
with sleeping, that act which frayed
the bond between brothers who
never thought such love would fade.

Tossing, turning, she ties knots
with the sheets she shared with men
whom were foremost in her thoughts;
both together, now as then.

The cardinals sing no more,
but claw at one another
for a lady they adore—
tearing brother from brother.

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