The Halo
When she runs through pitch
of night with sleet at her heels—
white trees waving last-minute
leaves as winter falls
under a bursting moon
her boots sooty
apron and kerchief red
hair as pale as pink ivory
and a skull for a heart—
the blackness gathers
over her head
like a halo.
2 thoughts on "The Halo"
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I love the images and the intensity of this poem!!!
The sounds and images are exquisite.