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Poem

Waking to that familiar fabric of dawn, pink-hued 
Hewn from the previous black quilted night
It dawns on me:

At a time, it shall prevail 
upon us all, the unwelcome blessing of suffering
And you will feel like 
A feather in the breath of a tempest
It may take the shape of a friend who becomes a shadow 
wisps away; quick as mist from black soiled swale in a hot wind
It may be the sickness that takes root in your flesh and decides to stay 
until you go,
It may be Lord Tennyson optimism 'Tis better to have...” You know the rest, that you endure now

Love loss,
Lost. Where do intangibles hide anyway?

Our love, now like the paintings on the wall of the house we bought of the people who once owned it and have returned to dust
I can never write words like stones 
that make a path that lead your heart to do good
And should I? After 
all I've learned I cannot unmake anyone I can only change myself

 I'll have plenty of time to deal with my impatience at my leisure now
And so there is futility to dream that a

A miracle may transpire in his belly to dream that it had grown from a small pebble to a large stone. A boulder nearly. Although wishing never hurts.

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