Hollow Bliss
by Emily Claytor ’13
Summer. The warmth I can remember well from that night;
for the cold cuts deep to the bone in these solemn winters,
and even the fire’s warmth cannot keep out the chill.
I study the skeletal boats in the picture,
naked without their sails.
That was a good time, when the warm rays of the sun
did caress my cheeks,
leaving them pink, as if I had been slapped
by an uplifted hand.
The sun hovers above the horizon in the picture,
as if dreading the thought of its final descent.
The brinish breeze, breathing upon the pines
looks as if I am watching a silent lover
brushing his gnarled fingers
against his companion’s ash white forehead.
Never again have I felt such hollow bliss:
the feeling of loss of something so beautiful.
Life cannot hold on,
but quivers above
then sinks once again into the ground
from which it came.