Be    the thrill of mortality

she spoke to him

and so she learned to sway

in and out of love. And he,

bare, prosecuted in sunlight,

stood like a guardian, as 

a forest stands as if

a quiet-bodied angel.

Behind him, their wood house

like so many others was crumbling.

Her eyes were blue-grey,

his demeanor a mountain.

Nevermind their  triumphs or failings or quaint civilities,  the child she carried   then, abuptly, did not- in the end of things they  lied down together, blue weight surrounded by Appalachian walls, daylight slyly dimming  earlier and earlier every afternoon.