I saw my lady weep.
With gratitude to John Dowland (1563–1626), and composed after his song of the same name.

A face, as pallid silver
a sliver of daggers, flaccid,
gentle eyes reddened and tired
tears as streams, trail across mires;
a shallow smile and worry lines,
etched as neolithic signs into
kind rock.

Her face was full of woe
(moreso, as the song goes),
hair tamed to a split knot,
thumb numb by a lowered chin,
a glow in midsummer low light;
a sigh, a cry, a howl, a faint
tired retire.