Monday, February 15, 2016


    Am I content to return to dust
    With the certain conviction
    Susan had?  She died knowing
    She’d go to the Lord.  I watched
    Her go, heard the musical sound
    Of her breathing until falling
    Asleep near her on the couch

    I was awakened
    By her silence.  How
    Can a journey of such
    Eloquence begin without
    A sound, without her animate
    Smile, her convincing words?
    Here now loosed, having seen

    Her go, taking the chain that
    Bound us with her  “Dost
    Thou not know in heaven
    There will be neither marriage
    Nor giving in marriage.”
    I haven’t the Lord’s appeal.
    Even taking my poetry

    He would say it was His
    Inspiration that I wrote from.
    She would shake her head
    In mild rebuke that I’d
    Presumed to think even these
    My own invention.  She’d
    Move away to hear Him more.

    I’d feel the poetry turn to ash
    Along with all I thought and
    Felt.  Why not turn now with
    Resignation to the long tunnel
    That shortens with every
    Faltering breath?  I try to
    Remember those fading

    Words, her form and
    Face wasting, resolutely
    Staying near from duty not
    From wishing to prolong her
    Life at expense of the next.
    Language crumbles like sawdust
    Fed to the great kiln of time.

    Consider an ant, marching
    To certain death with
    Equanimity, no thought that
    He wants it otherwise while
    I watch the smoke from all
    These poems burned by
    The loss of her breathing.

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