The Sybils Speak in Quaker Meeting

'The Sybils Speak in Quaker Meeting' by Dana Littlepage

The last bird sang

its black remembrance

of earth at the bottom

of our garden. One black bird

perched on the edge of time

a spindle twig quickened

by May, its golden beak

needling its way into the sheer

nothingness of the last day

singing I am all of what is…

A black remembrance

I am the fleet shadow

bison strong, I am longing

in the mourning dove of song.

I am the bowed head

of Himalayan poppy

that will not weep,

I am the Golgotha of beluga

whale, hill of skulls,

dawn’s crucifix still

gleaming. I am

a ninety-year-old woman

in Quaker Meeting

shaking like an aspen tree.

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