Even not being there doesn’t mean that they’re not there. I mean, I’ve always thought, that is, I’ve always hoped, they are a hair’s breadth out of reach, one glance from my trembling, angry, forgiving and unforgivingly lonely, missing-them heart.
Here and then again not here. A choice? Maybe. A defense? More likely. The one path still open for self-determination when if is no longer possible, when where is no longer possible, when why has worn a hole through a floor scattered with shell casings. How still can sometimes be grasped in our hands.
Fly, dear friend, with God, with hope, with all our love.
the little children
by one they left
to new places by jobs
schools, families, wanderlust,
or the simple busyness of life,
loving their own
The slow sun turns to morning, burning
through shade and drape like a surgeon’s laser
trims fat. My children ran to catch starfish
when waves peeled back,
ready for one grand
that took homes, gardens,
and laughter. It is too late now
to build arks or prayers,
and no one in particular
to forgive. There is only the sun
and me watching it.
What use is this wall
looming between us?
Can we balance along the top of it for miles?
Can we keep from being hurt
when even words
become weapons, laughter
an elixir of belief
in a world torn
bloody from climbing.