Still Birth

All through morning, the weight of morning heavied.
I felt words once whispered come back to me:
"Mezzo del cammin..."
                                    I would away to our father's
house and its separation, the slow-din of Sunday's
bells falling his village as all becomes holy.
Or to the Garden before Adam cursed the earth.
"...di nostra vita."
                             Outside, autumn's small print
shifts, hesitates, and as the automatic still
takes hold, repeats itself within the haunt-song
of a cicada. The air full of dull resilience.
"Mi ritrovai..." 
                        I find myself back by her side,                                 
the midday sun pulses through a glass coffin.
"...per una selva oscura."