Weary... my footsteps reach a dark alley
as gray light pushes stars into tender
tempest; notes from an old man's
weeping guitar choke my lungs droning, droning---
as if bitter bass of winds silences
my voice--- never to hear pang of a numb day
that holds this sacred dream I'll never possess.
Entering the halls of my mind, there she is,
laughing like an angel divine, shaping a lullaby
I hummed when arms cradled her when one
night's breath snuffed my child before her time.
And though without her, the young plum tree
that grew under her shade will always bear
sour flowers...its leaves and branches
reaching out to me with tender longing.
Perhaps I'll water them one day,some day...
because without their blooms, I might forget
the face of my little girl whose cheeks
looked like their flushing sheaths...and I gaze
at the same moonlight to touch her eyes
then fold them to sleep. Opening the rusty door,
we kiss," goodnight, baby... I am home."
---Based on my first cousin's experience
Love and Loss Contest for Charlotte Puddifoot