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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2067060
by C.O.
Rated: E · Poetry · Young Adult · #2067060
11/30/15
There was snow,
soft, white ash that
covered your palms when
you told me about her
outside of St John's Cathedral.

Barely sober, with solemn stance
you asked for a psalm, something
to part forgiveness on your
August dalliance, for a
truth that could absolve

the brimming womb of
your Mother Mary,
and the summer that
would soon bare fruit
too fair for the sun.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2067060