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Literature Text
Each October I stand here
As fallen leaves damask
haphazard arrangement
yellows and reds
In natural brilliance.
The heads of these stones
Stand above this sea of color.
It was October twenty years ago
When, in your stillness,
You were brought here
With box and grave faces.
—The last I saw of you.
I have been faithful.
In the braced air I visit
Though I have no words.
I want to believe you are here
Want to believe
And each October I turn my
Back on the leaves and the stones
And the air and the gray—
Believing—Believing?
Fall colors can return to green
And bring you back again.
As fallen leaves damask
haphazard arrangement
yellows and reds
In natural brilliance.
The heads of these stones
Stand above this sea of color.
It was October twenty years ago
When, in your stillness,
You were brought here
With box and grave faces.
—The last I saw of you.
I have been faithful.
In the braced air I visit
Though I have no words.
I want to believe you are here
Want to believe
And each October I turn my
Back on the leaves and the stones
And the air and the gray—
Believing—Believing?
Fall colors can return to green
And bring you back again.
Literature
This Is The Soil
The dirt was cold, and the skin around my fingernails clung to it hopefully. I churned in his ashes slowly, giving him back to the birches he planted forty years ago. I started using the curls of their bark for paper after he died; lines of poetry struggle every day in the drafts from the window, shivering and moving away bit-by-bit from the glass panes that I can see the river through. It always rushes in the winter; the cold is never cold enough to freeze, but always cold enough to chill. I left half the ashes in the urn.
Literature
The Sea
When you make the two one, you will become the Sons of Adam, and when you say, 'Mountain, move away,' it will move away.
Thomas 106: 1-2
Thumos
When I returned to town, I heard the stories:
That you'd walked the oak path,
And past the angel with the flaming sword;
Beneath the river,
Behind the trees
And through a pantheon
Literature
Uncoordinated Longitude
When I picked up the phone she told me that she missed the trains
and the way the rain smelled in the summer.
I scratched a pattern in the table with my thumbnail. I stretched
the phone cord between my fingers and said I was sorry.
She asked what I had to be sorry about and I told her I didn't know.
I twisted the cord into a clover shape while I remembered
her laugh when we picked up the penny off of the tracks, tossing it
back and forth, watching it catch the light and throw it back.
She asks me where I am and I know she does not ask where so much
as why.
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...and I wish she could see this...
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Comments186
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very beautiful and loving 