The Still Life
by Mark Sanders
Now — just at that silent place,
between sadness and gratitude,
wind-worn balances we all weather —
a cardinal leaps from a bare trim limb,
its red bloom lingering. The sun down
in deepening darkness
where night clouds consume it,
evanescence of orange and purple.
How moment passes, how memory
holds. The heart must break
if it has ever felt joy. The heart must
break because diminished things matter,
and having mattered hold, still.
You were here. For us. Then break, heart.
Your fingers lie upon the pulse of our days.