A white tremor hovers
Where the world’s thin places open
Its body is only suggestion
But its crying is real
A soft collapse in the air
A silver ache leaking through the seams
Each tear is a small undoing
A quiet unthreading of the sky
As if sorrow were rewriting light
And when dawn reaches for it
The dove breaks into brightness
Not healed
But glowing with the truth
That some cries
Are older than wings