Learning how to die,
my old friend gives me lessons
without my asking.
**
Things needing doing
because we’re human, are done
without horizons
of like or dislike—clear skies
speak bone-knowing clarity.
**
mid-April and wind
with deep chilled cries
at every edge that dares
**
The
teach-
ers
say
we
can
heal
our
selves
one
syl-
la-
ble
at
a
time—
it’s
right
here
in
the
say-
ing:
this,
I
be-
lieve.
**
Every now and then I turn
to check, but after seeing once,
it never fails—
the essentials are always right here,
regardless how much else
might be carried, what else thought,
the narrative worthy of trusting,
true north and steady, the promise fulfilled
before the asking, inherent, a part of,
so close—
a smile may be best, a whisper,
even that, maybe too much.
**
The Husky bounds down
the steps, stops at the gate. Sits.
Watches. Bounds back up.
**
—“Layers,” he said…
and I saw then and there and heard here
the quiet layers, saw the dusted screen
seen through, saw through the silent layers
unvoiced pain weighs days with, saw
the weight of years of un-cried tears
and the heaviness of bearing it alone.
**
We met here once. Now
that you’re gone—only morning
and this empty corner.
*
Light returns, but you,
you’re still gone—absence stronger
than your presence was.
**
I’m listless, forget
to remove dried flowers, sit,
watch the dust, wait poems
to lighten this place, without
disturbing even one thing.
**
Life’s terms determine
its departure—sister death
sometimes leaves choices.
*
It’s not your dying
that concerns you, but living
your dying your way.
*
In your shrug, lightness,
still there, almost a smile.
Lips dying too, but…
but not dead yet—“good to see,
good to see your face.” You shrug.
**
Who would have guessed, paths
newly laid by pandemic
—time has not been stilled.
**
The hills to the west
house windows facing east, flash
morning sun-signals.
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