Blue Hours by Diane Wilbon Parks

Blue Hours

A rise of dust falls from narrowed time,

as hours sit silently watching,

She is slowly dying.

Our prayers fade into clumps of silence,

the darkness stands in between the blue hours

and the blue souls crossing the night,

we prune the sky of dark clouds, we remove

the wintered arrows returning to tear deeper

into her incurable body, a liminal space of

hope’s prayers, and waiting ghosts.

She is still here, but not here, straddling a crescent

moon, yellowed with a glint of divine light, drumming

each staggered breath. We hold tight - her sacred air-

at our chest, we panic like wild horses, anxious and afraid.

As the eye of hope begins to close, the prayed prayers rinses

from our fingers as if water had drained from our bodies.

There is no air in the room. There is no language. No words

touching one another, only the night holding her hand.

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Diane Wilbon Parks is an accomplished poet, literary advocate, author, and visual artist. She was brought in as an Expert Consultant to the National Trust for Historic Preservation on a National Endowment for the Arts Grant. Diane has published two poetry collections and a Children's Book. Her poetry has been featured nationally and internationally in newsletters and online magazines. Diane is a USAF veteran and resides in Maryland.