does it matter that I have none to follow
a bare branch that never wanted leaves
but said to birds and insects and other things
here if you wish to make a home
none would remain or not for long
that did not matter was not the point
I offered what I had
now burn me down to ash
<dedicated to Richard>
consider loss and gain
grief yes in so many ways
seems to outweigh the world
then one brief kindness caught in the rush
tips the balance of the scales
the heart of compassion lighter ever
than the heavy feather of illusory truth
each of us has lifted a burden for someone
each moment each day each encounter
your time of listening, your hour of hearing
provides a gentler land
thank you thank you thank you
he saved me from desperation
train trestle desolate water razor edge
perhaps discerned, I never knew
he called me over to join him
warm smile and gentle handshake
such generous welcome brought tears
he nodded, “it’s okay to cry”
we talked about childhood pain and getting old
he died, and I mourn that I never told him
he died, and I mourn that he is not here
he died, and I will always rejoice
that I knew him as a friend
nothing in this day is mine, nothing ever mine
I am empty
could not see this today, too full of self
falsely disconnected
everywhere felt strange, everyone a stranger
forgot to bow in wonder, did not smile in thanks
all family everywhere, related to me over and over again
if I could remember to see
let sadness rest a brief cloud of ignorance, not make it the sky
I could hold out a hand to you all the ones of you
open it, give you a heart a flower a bird poised to fly
he died. he was killed. he killed himself.
his face so gentle when he gazed towards the world
steeled in judgement when he turned towards the mirror.
perhaps. we don’t know for certain, for no one came to tell us
their hands filled with grief, the overflow of tears
all we can see is the holes that appeared in our quotidian walk
smiles not given, kindnesses not done, bits of sparkle and joy gone missing
mourn if we want and for a time, but better would be
once we notice a gap, think how to fill it anew
he left his heart here, I know
it shines in your eyes my eyes and the eyes of us all
did I watch the sun disappear
I answer no, I danced instead
I sang to someone who was afraid
and held her in my arms
the sun leaves us every night then to return
a regular fable we tell ourselves
her life less certain, and so
I would rather gaze at her to gage her eyes
love burns much brighter, time so brief
let others behold the wandering sun
because the tidal overwhelm of war remains,
and women cry until they have no voice
and orphaned children die in cratered streets
and everywhere men kill other men because they can.
I sit with my back straight and become glass.
all the grief of the world washes through me
and through you, a darkened ink of light.
we breathe. all we can do.
because the common squabble of life constantly rains,
and this one accuses that one over something
and words become harsh here there everywhere
and bitterness becomes ordinary coin.
I carry kindness in my pockets to give away
as do you, little bits of good to see us through the day.
we smile. all we can do.
we all do what we can. that is all we can do.
because the language they taught me
was not enough, a paltry thing used only by them
and I wanted to talk with trees, I made my own
words reached into the sky, not grasping like hands
but open like branches, with silences so that birds could alight
and not be scared and so share their stories
though most thought me solitary even friendless
I laughed at this, being only alone
when I had to go out among them, and I felt pity
for all they could not hear
I am not there will never be again
yet know how the water can be so dark so still
the trees leaning over the banks from either side
an arched leaf canopy to block the sky
a refuge for those weary and unable
to live up to the pressure of a summer day
the constant expectation of carefree childhood
placed even on me
who always always knew that a lie
before I knew paintings were to be seen only with your eyes
because artists kindly understood different ways
I would walk to their work with outstretched arms
run my hands across the surface to find how it appeared
green felt different from orange or red or blue
yellow was so distinct I would tell the painters
it smelled like metal in the hot summer
a few would nod and sit on the ground beside me
they knew the world was like this, all texturecolorsoundscent
and we could talk