Death of an Infant

When breath's last amber echo slowly dies,
And even-tempered maidens beat the ground,
Then I'll unleash my fury from the skies
And silence will be predator from sound.

Though storm will rant and those now lost will rage,
And willow cries will signal us bereft,
The drum of day to night will turn the page,
And sweet mementoes will be all that's left.

Another will arrive and then one more,
With steady hand I'll father each as well,
Yet nested in a deep and private heart,
The death of first born son a lonely hell.

Today then as I bury you my child,
My voice be soft, but spirit thunders wild.