if I hold those paintings in my hands

the hurricane will finally hit

the house in which I spent my youth

torn to ruins in the howling storm

everything that I remembered gone

my mother herself now dead

I learned in childhood early on

how to survive such wind and rain

stand in the eye matching its eerie calm

I have no qualms about doing so again

grief runs through me

like clouds in this October sky

heavy and dark with threat of tearfall

pushed between horizons by a chilling wind

consolation also flows

swifter than my heart could recall

I have walked these parched fields before

and know the value of rain

in the end I will thank you for this disruption

useful reminder that faces ever change

and past love can mean nothing except impediment

something to be buried for your convenience

and fake affection can be tried as a clumsy bludgeon

ineptly seeking my blind consent

had you known me at all, this would have been different

my death will not be your force majeure

you forgot-or didn’t know-that I knew stories of that land

the timbered barn built by hand and burned in vengeance

the two streams that provided water and their springs

the reasons for the midden heap and the small house that overlooked it

I walked the boundaries every year

over rocky embankments between barbed wire fencing

learned about what had grown and what had not

what might be a good idea if the weather held

I sat in rooms warmed only by a stone hearth’s fire

and shared hot coffee and stories with people

whose names I do not remember

but whose gnarled hands I still see quite clear

I loved all of this pure and simple

felt it settle upon me like an obligation

care but do not own, land cannot be owned

for a time we lived in the same place

yet inhabited different homes

I saw walls hung rich with art

ate meals from hand-thrown plates

slept on a bed built with love

you didn’t notice paintings at all

thought pottery worthless bits of clay

had no care for handmade things

saddened I see this still in you

though you place no value in what I think

you have turned the world into your mirror

all you see is your glittering self

even my love could not pull your gaze

travel back now to the home you left

the home from which you were banished

to the doors which you closed behind you

the doors that refused you admittance

paint the walls with your tears

let them run with streaks of icy blue

then throw your laughter bright upon them

and walk away forever this time

the doors thrown open in invitation to all

the house finally empty of all sorrow

leaving only your many discarded faces

a tree grew on the banks of the bayous

shadowed for long periods but with filtered sun

enough to thrive and reach out over the waters

it sheltered nutria beneath its shade

sometimes a human would rest there

in verdant silence undisturbed and find

a moment of stillness would settle their mind

the tree’s gift, drawn up from deep roots

offered to any who drew near

but the tree became tall and the bayou traveled

so one day men came with saws

the noise they made filled the air

each cut into the bark shriller than the last

at the end as they left, they looked back at the clearing

stopped in their tracks by a sudden peace