Death, Stone and a Woman
Named Virginia Woolf
Virginia, this is the part I
don't understand
a selection of stones,
how you searched path, cove, shallow water
under an old oak, stood on the shore
like a child, claiming each one
in your woolen coat.
This is my death,
this is my home.
In December, cold alone
would've been enough to take breath,
sink bone and yet you chose
a selection of stones.
And this is where I wonder
if being a woman, a woman
whose words rose
from the ice of men,
floated above,
found their own.
If you forgot for a moment,
basic principles, rules of thumb,
believed after careful
investigation, you somehow
with a hand removed
elements of weight.
© 2002 T.E. Ballard. All
rights reserved.
© 2002 T.E. Ballard. All rights reserved.