image by Olesia Buyar on UnsplashYou are not on my Christmas list.
A sadder truth was never told.
Your dear name vanished in the mist
with nary a gift to wrap in gold
and no vestige of you to hold.
Oh what an odyssey it was.
That day, that road. It shredded me.
Climbing tight curves so desperately.
Round edges, lined by rock and tree.
Steep plunges, dropping to the sea.
The spruce tree missing from your grave
brought me to ground.
Another loss I could not save,
a low blow some thief blithely gave,
the superficial turned profound.
image by Erik KaritsI wrote a poem of you
and your blue eyes,
then took a walk
to read it at your grave.
Arriving there, I found
to my surprise,
no trace of tree
or pot, love-gifts we gave.
This morning, rather suddenly,
the cemetery called to me.
I did not yield; my day was full,
yet every hour I felt the pull.
My washer hummed; my keyboard clicked;
the oven baked; the timer ticked,
but underneath their steady thrum,
I heard your soft song, “Come, come, come…”
image by Egor Vikhrev on UnsplashThe wildfires burn fuel to ashes. I’m melted
and homeless. Adrift in the redwoods,
resilience is theirs, not my own.
The melancholy overlays each day,
a weeping willow branch shading bright blooms.
Reminders of you wind through all my rooms
in flowers, bright and dark along the way.
You looked at me through soft blue eyes,
expressions you did not disguise
of courage, anger, love and pain,
compassion, humor, wry disdain.