My heart is like a google drive. Streamed memories of you
float through the cloud in my less-sunny mind,
an often-viewed assortment of mixed ages and all stages,
good moods and lengthy broods, a motley find.
Our country is a sonnet
written in another time.
Set down in 14 lines,
no more, no less.
She’d waited two years for grief to end.
It wasn’t easy, but she was game.
“Two years should do it,” remarked a friend,
but Anne was still going round the bend
with nothing improving and much the same.
Sometimes, I think of your body,
sunk deep in the earth.
I look at your grave and imagine
the wood crate below.
I try not to wonder and yet
I cannot help but wonder
how much flesh is left, and
how long it will take that to go.
The world has not gone dark,
and soft stars sparkle in the sky
on summer nights.
The dawn still lights.
image by Morteza Farkhondepour on UnsplashI wear your absence like a hat, too tightly,
its brim subduing light relentlessly.
Son-light, grown brighter from celestial moorings,
and yet at times so difficult to see.
image by Andrew Ruiz on UnsplashThis year, on Independence Day,
it’s hard to know just what to say,
for words are used as weapons now
by some who vow or disavow
whatever stance one might defend,
with all sides easy to offend.
come and sit
beneath my blanket
as you did when
we shared space