New Poetry from Andy Levine

In the silent wood on Prospect Hill

they say the souls of children stay,

hoping to be found they wander and cry

underneath the darkened sky.

Those who stay the night to find one

are not the same by morning.

Ruined by the howling deep

the branches aching in the still wind

as if the children climb in the stiff black arms,

the haunted complaining boughs,

cracking and weeping from the weight

of their disappearance.

In the tent the huddled couples hold tight

as the withered souls surround their fire’s light,

to surrender and embrace their pain and cry:

the plucking of their stars from an ever darker sky.






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