My husband has been dead for a year and almost ten months as I sift slowly through his belongings They are mine to sort, now I find the love letters his first wife wrote him and some notes he wrote her They sear my hands and I drop them
I set them aside, for awhile And then I gather them up, and wrap them in cellophane They’re safe this way They sit for a long time
My husband has been dead for two years, nine months, and two days the day I carry these notes in my car to his ex-wife and I float above them, apart from them They are not mine to carry, any longer They never were — but I am a caretaker, and I do take care of those I love.
Wind sighs through my soul that sheds weights of old In the cold of the earth is the deepest fire of life and a diamond is revealed in the night's raindrop before me. The sorrow of the trees is that of the buddha, always watching these mortals blow, blow and die without knowing ever, truly, that all is well... To forgive for the pain, that too hurts like a hurricane, a gale of longing and want for the plant to grow up sure — attracted by sun, grounded by dirt and ever-expanding into air, somehow a part of the forest between bricks and mortar floundering on a roughshod foundation. May the peace of nature take root and breathe a future more true.
A home is the basis of a turning in the sky A patch of ground, wet, reflects the gray above A person tramps through, marking space with steps Another person stops here, caught up in a thought A tangle of forms seem to be separate, apart yet form the very fabric of this life, utterly basic and just another rubric.
Some days, you're stuck behind the garbage truck. You just need to plug your nose, and suck it up. The windshield wipers clear the rain, again and again. Do you feel the same itch within your soul? I see a smiling face in my mind, and wonder where I might find true communion, endless light. First, clear out the trash. Keep moving down the road.