Submitted by Jordan Anderson
The stars are scattered along the roof beam of the night
Like grains of sand apportioned by a child’s fingers;
The hour stands in its unveiled sorrow, and lays its head
On the breath of a lily, where all air and movement cease.
I think of my father. The way the lonely river placed
His body on its shore, as though with loving hands.
Even then, death came as a wan rider by obscure roads,
Taking each tarnished ideal and clutching in its fists
The light it had once given, to steal away, and vanish into time,
And leave only nights that mar all thought like a wildfire.
About the Poet
Jordan Anderson is originally from Portland, Oregon. His poetry and essays have appeared or will appear in publications such as Ink In Thirds, After the Pause, and World Literature Today.