Softly comes slowly
to the middle years
of this winter,
the wind brews
a cold cup of resin,
while clouds are
an edge of memory
as the moon crouches
What tumble of
these winter blooms
I pluck with my pen.
How the page softly
blushes with petals.
As I walked I was
humming the way
a wind will sing
itself to sleep,
so quiet a hymn,
I was the snow
as it falls into
Autumn, I remember…
now you’ve gone
and I’m without dreams
wherever did you drift
that simple soul I am
I believed I would go, too?
Photo: Garen T Photography
tomorrow is draped over
a chair – sure it is waiting,
the bluets have all gone
but the blue
Within him, there was a vacant yearning
where he dwelled having given up. I don’t
know when. I can’t venture a guess, but
I have the thought that at one time, he was
more alive with this desire. For a woman?
How can I rightly say? I feel though that
it was a long wanting, the way it left
him devoid of life.
And that was when we met, there in his
private room, we two, where I learned
of his desire to return home. I was a young,
foolish intern, and I thought I had answers
for “home.” To go to art class, to play
checkers with his neighbors, in other
words to create a “home” there among
the dying and feeble.
But this was just recruitment he said.
And the battle lay ahead. I thought this
was senility perhaps. And so I brought
a checker board to his room.
A room that smelled of urine from the
hall. He taught me every way he knew
to cheat at checkers. My presence taught
him what he already knew – life carries on,
there would always be more soldiers.
After six months, I went to play checkers,
and he cheated me. “He’s gone home,”
the nurse declared. I looked down at my
gift for his Kwanzaa.
I thought he and I might have found his
“home.” I thought home was friendship
and empathy. But it was neither. It was
the sea where they spread his ashes on
the water. And it was not the sea at all.
drops on red;
a beautiful storm
splashes in my arms.