You sped off in angry darkness and struck something hard.
Turning back, you cupped two hands around the shell
of the broken turtle, to ease it to a place
where it would be more comfortable in dying
down by the river, the flat slap of dark water dying
beneath a dim streetlight, beside the shells
of broken factories, an empty silent place
you knew alone. You moved gently to a place
of moss and sand, a soft cool place for dying,
to honor to be faithful to the turtle, the shell
pealed from her tender dying places; you broke your shell.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 20, 2017 — by Kelley J. White
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim.