The Anointing

 A whisper of a breeze

wafts the muslin drapes

as, at long last, he sleeps.

She stifles a sob;

crêpe-de-Chine roses

in a cloisonné vase

faintly flutter – lift,

but a wafer-thin

layer of grief...strokes

his cheek, wet with her tears –

too soon bruised by the world.

Hope’s flown north

for the winter with a flock

of wild geese; its darkling wing

eclipsing a sickle moon.

She defies a devilish dawn

dare creep across the sheets

with him, still warm

in her embrace; kisses

his feet, as the day

he was born.