A Pall (haiku, tanka, ukiah)

The snow falls like ash
From a nuclear winter—
Sorrow songs sung true.

There are some good days,
When voices of exile bray:
The start is the end.
The mournful rumble we hear
Widens a crack in our souls.

Our voices froze in the night—
Sound iced in our throats—
A pall of smothered silence.

What I’m Reading:

“There is no ‘safe’. At any moment the fragile thread by which we dangle may break, and we may plummet into the unknown. ‘Safe’, the word, ought to be outlawed. It gives people false ideas.”

— Margaret Atwood / “Widows”