I have reclaimed
the sadness for this place
left under your pillow
for me to grip on anger nights
I have it around my neck like
a boyfriend's ring
I begin to carry holy dirt
taken from pink places
handed to me by my son
just recently as if to say
maybe this will bring it back
It sits in my pocket
bringing nothing but this:
crosses with hanging rosaries
an art gallery with a baby grand
canyons with girls on the edge
a boy climbing indian ladders
the highest point I'd ever stood from
church and god himself
whispering in the oldest of wood
the words I ignored,
Bring on the kind love
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3 comments:
so often i believe that love was given us so that its departure could fuel our poems,for its loss is inevitable, isn't it,and more fragile than our words. you chronicle its beauty and futility better than anyone i know. and give me the strength to withstand my own frailty.
Humbled by your comment, thank you. I agree,it does seem inevitable to have it depart, or at least change in a way that is beautifully tragic.
i keep thinking of bring on the kind love.
and there are so many kinds,aren't there?
hope everyone got through the big wind okay.
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