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
I was never to his war
bloodied land, rubbled homes, shrieking wounded
but he brought it home to me upon my doorstep
the ugly desperation of those who returned
so haunted by not dying that death trailed them
whispering constantly names of the killed
it’s only the wind I told him again and again
he could not hear me through the endless moan
until one night I learned how heavy a gun can be
when you remove it from a limp hand
how futile comfort offered seemed
against the stark reality of a bullet casing
I never heard the shot
how do I say he lived, when he never left the fight?
I would give up this heart these bones
such broken fractured things
stitched together with fraying thread
strung with tiny bits of pearl
mending a constant futile task
the hour short as night falls fast
and I am wearied beyond my words
when I travel the rough paved roads
ones faced by metal doors and delivery docks
I no longer stumble on the broken curbsides
my gait undone by my broken heart
once I grieved on those back corners
cried in the rain so no one saw my tears
unexpected strangers shared my burden
let their hearts break open with mine
these exchanges proving prior connection
subterranean tug and flow of outpoured love
drew away selfish cold isolation
ceaseless buffet of harsh afflictions
now I carry in my pockets bits of sorrow
transformed by compassion’s embrace
drop them among the rocks on the street
reminders of level kinship between us
no I no you no they no we
and always the memory of her luminous smile
his gentle welcoming gaze
two oil paintings with a familiar signature
the artist a familial friend
now they rest in a stranger’s garage
thrown carelessly against some boxes
to him they mean nothing
to me they are so much more
warm salty air and a peculiar swampy fug
a studio perched on the edge of a gulf bluff
the path overhung by mossy cypress trees
a refuge offering magic to a hungry child
