Honoring Your Poetry...

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shawhoop
I give it 5 stars



Searching for that fallen moment,
the point where meeting is comfort enough,
daybreak at your new bedside,
dust blown from on old brown Book,
reading verses not wanting to read,
and understanding the voice will not heal.

Gather the flowers for pottery,
placing them at your feet for memory,
eyes raining upon the already damp grass,
and hearing the crunch of fall leaves,
the dead nature at our feet,
reminding cruelly of the present.

The uncertainty of breathing lies
forever in our minds from that monday,
while we scrambled and huddled
around your figure shadowed by blankets,
beeping, the tubes, taking our beats
in hushed silence while she wailed.

And he covered his face with hands,
worn leather hiding fear in a room,
stomachs aching for substance not
wanting life but your life, a return
to sunday when it was certain that
this day was an illusion unimagined.

But early mornings cause flashbulb nights
and people send symbolic ham
to our doorstep with prayers and a
no words can offer attitude that offers
arms and we think to trade for
a new life where you still laugh.

A new life we did receive unjustly,
this ground just broken brown in fall,
wide open hills and markers of tears,
a pond reflecting blue in our eyes,
today we come to you, wanting you,
to find you still and flat at our feet.