My Language

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I once spoke in deep graves,
My dialect was shadows and death,
Swept along by the air’s breath.
My language was the tempest
Sweeping and whipping the sea waves.
There is still darkness there,
A frost upon my core,
But the ice crystals break
With the thought of a new day,
One when the shadows retreat
And the winds calm,
And death lies dormant,
Subdued by the sunlight
Beating upon an empty tomb.