Very few people have ever read my poetry. It’s my great intimacy. But right now, I can find no other way to express the events and emotions of the last few days. Shirley’s death clings to my soul in a cloud of words and fractured details. And it is Poetry Month, after all, so I’m going to face my fears and let the words escape the page.
The ultimate loss achieved.
The shadow of a life well lived, done.
To feel deprived of someone.
The empty weight of being bereaved.
Impending death was mine to tell.
But she knew it all too well.
And had her own message to impart.
The children played, splashing, games.
Then the wet chill. The sun, dull.
Driving home, the fated call.
Through the phone, she whispered his name.
Memories of others flooding in.
But this time a heart break, a choice.
Last request. Century voice.
Lightening storm echoes her midnight end.
Cross-country scramble to share
Preparations, detour feelings.
Ignore grief, turn to dealings.
Mourning on the wings of morning air.
A stripped hollow of a soul
Where hot emotions should run wild.
Attend to the family and the child.
Tread carefully around the hole.
Her home. Final threads to tie.
A letter in the entry way.
A last note to us to say,
“Thank you,” a cleverly sealed goodbye.