though the sun rises quickly to heat the sky
burning its way through the window shades
still the rain continues to fall
turning the walls without eaves into rivers
a swift rivulet finds a course through a crack
the condensation coating the inside panes
like tears that flow from any casual devastation
the hot humid air cannot hold this
so it lingers to seep through the open pores
and you discover yourself weeping
from every ordinary grief
will you mourn if you kill a river
the murder of water is no small thing
money and war do not sustain life
when you were a child thirsty from the noon day heat
did you drink down a glass of clanking coins
when you washed your hands dirty from grime
did you run them under a show of force
when you grew your fields green with food
did you irrigate them with destructive toys
perhaps you do fill your cup with dollar bills
pile your plates with war planes and bombs
making yourself gaunt withered unaware
when you are dying and long for one last cooling sip
you’ll moisten your parched throat
with the only thing left to flow
poison that will kill us all
a shadow passing over the moon
one cast by radiance from the sun
the shining joy of constant regard
and each orb’s glow is ever seen
as night follows day and back again
what we know is not obscured
sorrow not to be eschewed
treasure it as reminder
remember always remember love
when the ground shakes in these uncertain times
when the house no longer shelters from the moment’s storms
when the heart breaks from all it’s asked to carry
when tears fall faster than the flooding rain
I would hold you
enfolded in the expanse of silent regard
with spacious kindness for your grief
be a staff in the fog that surrounds the day
a gentle warmth in night’s unseasonable chill
I have mourned so many deaths and died so many times
that this is now familiar space
no presumption to guide, no offer but this
walk beside you at your own pace
reveals the beat and throb of sorrow
the chambered pulse of metered love
the hidden oceanic flow
arterial currents have their source
every signal a prior initiate to fire
all arising from endless time
descending back into the same
number your days by this count
until you relax and rest
in tender expose of your wise flayed heart
what purpose these words, except to me
and even then they seem foolish
of less use than the gravel on the road
those broken grits that cause the unwary to slip
I fall so often and so hard
best heed not anything I write
since ignorance must be my walking stick
and confusion my current path
in the burning of the brush
the smoke the ash the guarded fire
what do you allow yourself to see
let memory rise within this act
the story shared be one of love
a regeneration that carries all
if you focus only upon the char
make bitter grief your flint and steel
you turn a purposed needful deed
to one that scorches beyond control
yourself both spark and endless fuel
so breath now and know
that death is not the final end
you can see him living evermore
in field and sky and running stream
and the laughter of a child
wake, startled into notice, to wonder who is gone
walk through the streets to remember
the clatter of stones beneath your feet
sounding the clink of cup against saucer
there a moment recalling tea
the blue of pottery casually shattered
left as shards in random view
shining the unguarded glimpse of eyes
that looked for what others didn’t see
the brush of a petal against your hand
soft and unbidden as all kindness ever is
falling unnoticed to the ground
to rest in unseen ashes, the scattering of love
he did not break in the obvious way
no splintered snap, a branch bent too far
no fissured crack, a stone’s hidden fault
he withdrew himself
a quiet subtle piecemeal going
as if hoping no one would notice
as if he himself did not want to know
holes appeared in the small fabrics of town
that once would have been patched before anyone saw
his kindness and care had been such threads
all the community felt his loss
though they knew not that they mourned
the fire sped through with efficient speed
taking everything in its hot maw
leaving the only fallen bricks of the wall
and this on the ashy floor beneath a dirty boot print
a black and white photograph, torn at one edge
taken of the house just after it was built
empty yet of anything but anticipation for years ahead
constructed by a frame of dreams and hopes
those laid waste and now in charred ruin
though the scent of burnt memories still hung in the air
as I picked it up, I silently asked it
did you know somehow what lay ahead