Unceremoniously enteringDrenched in palest
Aqua Blue,
Watered in sea green glass.
Immersed in saintly aura
One could be devoted.
One could hope to ask.
Even you could not resist
The gaze of the Madonna
And stayed,
Lit the candle for your father
Where they left the wedding bouquet.
Not without grief
Will there be acceptance.
The memory
Stands out in relief,
Tactile.
Redundant.
No solace
In remembrance,
Flowered in fragrant
Afterthought.
The dried petals
Pasted to your likeness,
Dissimilar
To the hazy image
Blurred between the lashes.
Surrender
To the infliction.
Indifferent to the pain.
Life in slow motion sickness.
The coldness freeze framed.
The afternoon sun
Plays at the window.
Tasting the stained glass
Like candy in a jar.
Every medallion,
Every fragment
Explodes
In brilliance
Inside my mouth.
Her shadow passes.
Her flickered flame
Dances
Like a butterfly
Just outside the net.
The showcase dims.
The jewel box empties.
Precious gems
Of stolen moments
The pauper does without.
Cups and saucers
Plates and platters,
Stacked at rest
From clink and clatter.
Silent as the sunlight
Shatters
Every rim.
Chips and hairline
Fractures bared.
Honesty in blankness
Stares.
Choosing one to ease
Its care
And fill to brim.
Contemplating
Form and function.
Nibbling on
The caused compunction.
Sipping simply
In conjunction,
Poised and prim.
Fast. Furious. Unforgiving.
On the cusp of indecision.
Gusting. Thrusting.
Hell bent.
Wind!
Scare crow hair-do.
Oh-oh. What flew?
Hatless? Hairless!
Dumbfella. Umbrella bent
In the wind!
Here, in the hollow
Of my heart,
Living still,
As though no time
Has touched them,
In the places
They called home,
And my ghost
Among them.
These walls,
So silent now,
Retain the talk
Begun in earnest,
What was so important
Once.
Only once?
But breathe, these walls,
Exhale the laughter,
For I know I heard them
Ear to wall.
Hand to heart
Is but my own beating
In this half hollow.
Here,
Living still.
What if that voice is silent?So long silent, that voice.
More familiar
Than strange
In its absence.
The anticipation of footsteps
Stopping at my door
Are nothing but my own
Slippered feet.
A kind of muffled answer
To a question of such
Significance.
Its branches fill the sky.
Interlaced.
Diamond patterned
On my face.
Beneath this behemoth,
Only I.
The ground that spills
Around it,
Where the shadows of us
Play,
Tangled in my tresses,
Takes a strand
And falls away.
This tree.
How can it stay the same when
Everything else has changed?
I grew my hair outSomething inside me
Clamored like armor.
The point of my pencil splintered
Before I began.
The last page in my sketchpad
Was spoiled with smudge
And ruined,
And I slammed down my hand
For what I imagined
Would be Great.
Burnt Sienna.
Cerulean Blue.
Alizarin Crimson.
Now what would I do?
I pulled my hair back
And got in the Jeep.
In quest of new brushes, colors,
Acrylics and oils.
But the moment had passed.
Inspiration had fled.
My plan to paint my
Masterpiece
Was foiled.
Great.
Just imagine.
Burnt Sienna.
Cerulean Blue.
Alizarin Crimson.
No Picasso for you.
We envy the birds