Sara Teasdale Died

The night swallowed her, quiet as the sea, Where the waves carried whispers, heavy and deep— Sara, a ripple lost in the currents of time, A flicker gone dark beneath the moon's hollow eye. Oceans curled their backs to kiss the blue sky, Choked on salt and her long drawn out sighs, drowning what they knew— Her words, her marrowed bones, her soft, dissolving light Faded brown foam, softly entered the night. What does the earth remember of her? the ground never speaks. A wound wrapped in roots, bruised by forgotten feet, While people, fleeting shadows, scavenge the shore For echoes, shells, the small dust of her name. Only the moon, that pale, silent judge, Still sees the dance of waves, oceans, and sky— A rhythm born of grief, endless as her loss, Turning the world beneath a weeping star.