New Day

 

The sound of rain

Through an open window

A crow’s call

A new day has begun.

For All That Is Lost

For all that is lost

I weep

For those we miss

Today and every day

Like the scent of orange blossoms

Or rain

Carries a memory

Too sweet to be painful

Too sad to make you smile

Just a gentle breeze

Touching your cheek

Like someone you remember

Always.

In memory of Kate Donahue

5/20/85 - 1/6/11

Raincoat Prayer

 

Let me be

A white wall

You could hang a picture if you want

Or a sidewalk

Echoing with someone else’s footsteps

Can I please be

A window

For someone else to look through

To see the world outside

A street dotted with candy wrappers and cigarette butts

The sunshine reflected in a puddle

Slowly disappearing after last night’s downpour

If I could be

A coat for you to wear

The lining torn but silky still

You wouldn’t mind the holes

Would you?

Or maybe

I could be a sky

So wide and open and empty

That I can hold everything at once

And then let it all go

A cool softness dropping on this world

Like gentle rain

Most of all

Can I be still?

So still that I forget I’m even here?

And all that’s left is 

The white wall

The sidewalk

The window

The candy wrappers

The cigarette butts

The puddle

The sunlight

And a coat that smells of rain

Thanksgiving 2020

From the top of Taylor Mountain

I can see new scars on the Eastern hills

Burn marks on the landscape

The charred remains of conifers and oaks

A fire swept through

Again.

It won't be the last.

I can also see 

One single California poppy.

Battered by the wind

Holding on strong

A tiny, tender sun

Shining brightly

Against the grey rock

And the faded grass

There will always be 

More fires

New scars

And every year

New poppies

Empty Room

Picture yourself

In an empty room

Then just the room

Empty

The absence of you

Lingering

Where you used to be

Like a three-dimensional shadow

In space

Like the negative image of the sun

Beneath your eyelids

When you close your eyes

After staring at the sun

Too much.

Linguistic Challenges

 I thought

I was well-versed

In the language of grief.

But it keeps evolving

Beyond any dictionary

I find myself

Incapable of pronouncing the words

Unable to even decipher the characters

All I can do is listen.

Always The Crows

Always The Crows

And then

There’s always the crows.

A black and shiny sadness that descends upon this world

Every morning.

A comforting darkness.

I can hear them when I open my windows.

Somehow their calls seem louder when the skies are grey.

They greet me when I go on my morning run,

Tossing walnuts into the street so cars can crack them open.

Resourceful birds.

Their voices are not beautiful, but honest.

Crows don’t sugarcoat.

Harbingers of mortality

Travelers between worlds

Crossing from this realm into the next

Deep down and high above

When everything else is gone

There will always be the crows

The mighty silent hush of their wings

Their snarky commentary on this world

Their utter blackness

And a few scattered walnuts

For them to feast on

After we are gone.