With tentative fingers, I push back strands,
watch trails left by the unexpectedly departed,
and learn to pluck from their identities
one which I can talk of as my own.
Will, in a hundred years hence, someone say
Berenice? Oh yes, I've heard of her name?
Or will the bones of my being simply fill
a void in some graveyard hill?
To contemplate such an idea is
to face my own mortality, or even immortality.
It is to breach the one darkness in
ever-shifting rays and shades of light and in-between.
© Berenice Dunford
Featured in Kensington and Norwood Writers' Group VoicePrint1
