Adamant

Bacon and sausage. Dogs and music. Whiskey and a wife's smile. Sometimes, surely, it is just that simple. Lately it has not been. Not in life, not in fiction, not in poetry. One year, maybe three poems. All about grief. One imagined, yet real - a son's song for a father's tale. Two, too true and too close - a brother to the scion, a brother to the sire. Tributes written, loss spoken, still silent the muse, on all besides - stanzas only flowing when so too the tears. Yet, my life ended not with theirs; neither will I let my story. Not my life's, not my characters', not my verses. Songs and stories yet remain, so too adventure and poetry. Amidst vowing not to forget the fallen, I forgot those things instead. that. They will see my pen fly on, for thoughts large and little, momentous and mundane. No peace comes from staying my hand. So I will write, today, of bacon and sausage. Of dogs and music. Of whiskey and a wife's smile. Today, if no other, it is just that simple.