We are a million hours of time away from the boy who wrote poems and drew pictures -- and the girl so excited to read them, to know him, to love him. Those children lost in the fogs of doing adulthood -- The Serious Business of Living -- That Delusion -- Teaching them to hide away in the dark shadows -- alone. Grief is a selfish master. His remembering what is lost always living that past image. The dearness of it roots the tears, forces the chest to grow upward in swelling pain. We grieve the possibility that died. The honesty we forsook. We grieve what could have been if we were other than we are. We grieve the hours spent believing we could be anything and everything to each other -- those doors always closing in silence, the noise of our breaking heart the only sound left echoing through the room.
I sit by the small pineapple fountain
I always say, I like this space —
but the larger fountain, more often
calls to me, and I sit there — writing.
When God and I were discussing
where to go and how to Live Today,
I mentioned this pandemic —
“I do not know how much longer
You will grant me breath?”
(He remained silent on this topic.)
So, we agreed —
Today is the perfect day
to sit by the pineapple fountain.
Sharing sunbeams, a mild breeze,
the tender melody of dripping water
and this Great Love we share
for the beauty and complexity
~April 6, 2020 at Market Common Fountains
Love goes out —
a Dove in flight
seeking a place
to land —
to hold her.