I keep her pictures close,
they’re like comforters.
We sit together in this backdrop of grief,
his eyes, above his mask,
like windows in rain.
They did all they could… still, we had a few extra years,
I should be thankful,
I’m hardly alone,
there’s no shortage of sorrow in the world.
I listen, careful to bring no urgency
into these silences —
the pauses are lay-bys on gradual paths,
my mind is an empty diary he writes in.
You know, I dream of her in the middle of the day.
I see her on one knee, tightening, once again,
the hinge on our garden gate, smiling,
like she has this bright green thought —
the wonder of being here at all.
He turns his head to the curtained window
and enters some secret place, where,
I imagine, they’re sitting together
without worrying the future.
But that was her faith — the daily eloquence of
of small tasks, like bodily prayer, like St. Benedict caring
for his spade and rake “as if they were vessels of the altar.”
In some way, I never want to stop grieving.
Is that crazy?
I’m afraid if I do I’ll lose her,
I’d sooner join her.
The wells spring again and I wait.
Pure mourning is like a meadow
where sorrow finds its sun and flowers, hints of fruit.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to go on living as long
as I can, but in a way, her dying
has simplified things — has taken away the dread.
She told me once she learned of an ancient dance —
a chain where each new leader lets go, spins
wildly away
then joins another chain,
an open circle,
a rehearsal, she said,
for dying and rising.
So beautiful. This is the work. Thank you.
Thank you so much Ellen!
Such a simple yet profound poem…all at the same time. Thank you.
Thank you Terry Ann!
“Pure mourning is like a meadow where sorrow finds its sun and flowers, hints of fruit.” I don’t think my head quite understands this, but somehow my feelings do. It is the line that stopped me and held me in its tender promise. Thanks, Stephen.
Wonderful, thank you Ann. Trust your feelings.
From time to time, I emerge from my work and all the Zoom time, just to peek in on the writing of my friends. These days, poetry is salve. So on this snowy day, I looked back at your modest proposition, read about Psalms and sparrows, and birthday presents of words. Who else could write poetry about laundromats or being a pharmacy, which of course, are metaphors for so much more? And now this. As always Stephen, I am in awe. Words cannot be the vaccine we all need, but they are certainly good for our soul and our emotional well-being. Thank you.
Diane, I’m so very grateful for your “peeking in”. You encourage me to no end. Thank you!
I’ll never forget this one Stephen x
Thank you Ana Lisa, you are wondrously generous.
Thanks for this, Steve,
“Loving is not for the weak
“We can decide not to love too much, thus the loss might not hurt as much when it happens – but in that way, we die a little every day… The other choice is to love greatly, knowing the pain will be great when the loss happens, but knowing the treasure of loving greatly and being greatly loved….”
– David Schnarch (rough quote)
Thank you Sam. And thanks for the quote. I believe grief and love are two sides of the same coin.