Another Way To Grieve
Is a memory less real
than the event that it replays,
or the video that seized its light?
Death trifles with them both,
powerless,
not of itself twice born.
I see a picture of my son;
the image on my brain sees life
unfading, and I may
immerse myself within that vibrancy
assuring me that death
becomes the more elusive lie
though as I sift
his ashes through my fingers.
I know he did not die.
There is no past, no future,
and the present gone
before my consciousness accepts it--
this photograph performs the thin totality
that shines upon my mind
through each forever,
giving birth within an avalanche
of still another billion worlds
behind.
~
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