The grass rubs cool
beneath my waiting feet.
I touch the vacant, once sanguine spaces
now lonely between my finger tips
I listen as you speak, softly “goodnight”
varied only by the rise – of her touch.
I can hear the voice of my own voice needing to know
what made this
Then you are gone
shadowy about my vision.
The sweeps of light undo me
a sharp pain, pins
me to the earth.
I want to take the warmth from your hands
cradling it about my body –
but chances come
to go – of that I now, do know.
Yet still I can recall, from my memory of memories
how foolishly I let ours go…
Not for her this slam of day
against those, violet rays that talk
of calmer reason.
For when she hears the trees, who dare
to catch the breeze, then laugh with ease,
she sets aside her mind to bleed.
For all about each season – behind
the windows curtained glass
she watch’s, bridled not for hope
of long, beyond forgotten –
then blown to scatter distant brown
with toss of hand
amid that bed of earth, still warm.
Then all about did listen
as the sun set down her light to drop.
Quietly setting over them; as the day dropped to her knees.
My house is all whitewashed
whiter than chicken bones left drying
in the noon day sun.
I was five –
when they set you to rest
but here, you still live
my overdue resident, of sometime past.
How many things do I need to remember
outside the love of a father and child?
I suffered from no preconceptions
A child never does –
you offered, and I melted like sugar
so all the children can sing, as we let
the sea wash over us.
On the day they buried you
I played – though never in fun.
I felt it was better than crying
less to make those grown ups mad.
Someone stopped to touch my head
they seemed old
so very, very old
I remember thinking
how long you were dead – you would always be you!
never to be that way:
So I smiled –
as I painted my house white…