Seraphic

Outside of my door
and across the rolling fields
there is
a man
who
killed
an
eight
month
old
girl.

What scintillating rage,
cultured fury,
abandoned black grace
compels one to
quiet a nascent spark?

Her eyes,
now still.

Her gaze,
now black.

Her forward going,
now stopped.

The whisper of the wind
her advocate.
The stars,
her witness.

Pallid justice,
a meager comfort.