Held tight by disbelief
tighter still by dismay.
A bloated buffoon
with forked tongue
in charge now
and able
to set a course
to dictate
to hold the cards.
But the winds still move
according to earthly laws,
birds fill the trees
as morning crests,
children still say
“You are so silly.”
Please.
Please.
Please.
Not yet,
not yet.
Each day,
I let a little more go.
Ideas.
Feelings.
Stories.
And fear
of the welcomed emptiness,
that will surely
take the place,
of everything,
that used to be,
me.
And then?
Birdbath,
filled with sky.
Puppies.
And there we were,
into the woods,
the brook,
the meadow,
our hearts overflowing into the open wild,
together,
in search of nothing more,
than what we could discover,
together.
Then,
I let them go,
to other hands and hearts,
as life does,
they went that way,
I went another.
In stories and visits,
I saw them thriving:
eight years of glory.
Two phone calls,
within months of each other,
genetic balls of cells,
carrying them both away.
Buried now,
near each other.
Those of us who loved them,
thoroughly,
in deep,
gifted in that loving.
I see them still:
puppies,
into the woods,
the brook,
the meadow,
and someday,
I will follow.
Hugo and Sassafras
There is the inferred,
between
the lol
and the <3.
I linger there,
believing there is more:
more heart,
more depth,
more intrique.
I picture a place,
the characters,
the conflict to be resolved,
and that’s where
I most want to stay.
In plots,
in points well taken,
in words that convey it perfectly:
stories,
images,
feelings.
Borne up and out,
of texts
and emails,
sent through the air.
How do the words stay intact?
And there,
in what’s not said,
in what might have been said,
if you called,
if I did:
I
go.
Plucked right out of the sky,
a fish of largeness,
a bass,
and me,
not expecting this big.
All day,
I thanked the bass,
as it lay on ice,
in keeping.
Then me,
steaming and eating the fish,
imagining its life in this lake,
its body,
sleek scales in glinting flight,
water flight,
weightless,
like outer space.
And me,
pulling it
right out of its sky.
With every bite,
this fish,
now,
me.
This is their world: seagull in heightened flight, heron low skimming, geese flocked up close among lilies, loons in tremolo warning, snakes curled long absorbing heat. Among them now, barefoot and listening to Beethoven, first thing Sunday morning, and suddenly, all I want, is to be part of their world. Music off, breeze picking up, the lake is stirring now. There it is: their world, and me, thinking, and trying too hard, to find a way in. In a few days. In a few days, limbs and breath, in tranquil stretching, loose and deep, will be floating effortlessly, in our world. 
And there they were,
tucked low and close,
among the sea stones.
In search of mussels,
I found a star fish,
suddenly thrust into
a direct hit of sun.
A moment to make sense of this,
and then:
more of them,
large ones,
blue,
white,
coral,
star fish.
Low tide,
just minutes spent out of water,
I watched as the ocean returned
down into the crevices.
I went down, too,
and stayed,
lost in the reverie of tides,
as the water settled in around their arms,
opening,
displaying minute filaments,
white as pearl,
slowly reaching for,
rock,
kelp,
and each other.
And there I was,
caught,
not in a net,
but in awe,
as each one vanished,
beneath the waves.
Out beyond the sunken shallows,
a saltwater bay,
almost still,
save for one loon.
This loon,
alone,
and I sink down,
interpretation low and sad.
I imagine it lost,
abandoned,
its mate long gone:
that storm,
those lights,
that boat.
But if I bend it back,
change the story
I can see it content,
after a morning bath,
she’s clean and alert,
a webbed foot thrust out behind,
as it floats,
giving in to the currents,
it knows deep
in the silence of its bones.
A small boat approaches from the north,
and then I hear it:
a quick trilling tremolo of warning.
There’s another loon,
beyond the buoys,
swimming in.
I am hushed,
and humbly whisper,
“I’m sorry.”
I leave them to what they know:
water,
inside and out,
fresh and salty.
Alone and together.
The story,
rewritten.
What I would have said to you,
is how magnificent,
your mind,
your heart,
the way you see,
the way you feel life,
laughter like raining crystals,
the way you narrow it down,
to an essence.
Your eyes,
keen and bright,
seeking nothing more,
than the purest of light,
truth,
leading to love.
Nothing wasted,
there wasn’t time,
never enough,
and when you died,
forty years ago today,
my heart grabbed hold
of what was left of you,
and now,
awake early again,
in the deep morning tide of bird song,
I stop to listen,
and imagine,
your voice among them.
There was death here,
a fast flutter of wings,
over quickly,
blood,
feathers,
sinew,
all left in the snowy yard,
and now I wonder,
if they remember,
if caution rides their bones,
as they snatch seeds,
quickly and suddenly,
they pause,
as if an attack is imminent,
I stretch to look,
that hawk perhaps,
perched here a year ago,
but nothing,
they hold still
as winds buck and roar,
marking frigid time,
at last,
winter is having its say,
and death,
with darkened talons,
found its prey.
aneverydaypoet60 