Anna Blake Godbout
Notes from the Ridge
Mornings (Will Never Be the Same Again)
Sunrise burns through the early mist,
warming me like a quilt forever shared,
unaware the delicate, weak seams
would eventually fray and split;
letting the cold morning wind inside.
The storm arrives without warning,
fury consumes hurt, suddenly casting
a dark shroud across our blue skies,
over the angry sea, gray like wet slate.
Even at a safe distance, we can no longer protect
our moors from being thrashed upon
by tempestuous surf, uninvited to our private beach.
We do not have the strength and courtesy
to hold on to threadbare ghosts of our years.
Once tender now lies tossed,
heaped in a corner of tattered pain.
Traveling down broken and divided roads,
our backs turned, hearts chilled;
we walk away from mornings that once were,
to mornings that will never be the same again.
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