writing poetry

days endeared to every muse
i was a goddess ere the marble found me
for then without
often is it not so?
as a white candle
when you come tonight
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
my son is dead and i am going blind
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
in your flight
of sun nor stars