Loss of a steady gaze coming back at me
And subtle knowledge that a conscious mind was observing
Recognizing that no arms could hold the child as the heart now yearns
Understanding that those soft voices no longer attend my sleep.
So I begin again, not as though newly begun.
As with memory, there are confusions.
Even my own role has slid quietly into a slow single step
And another. Who to tell of the ripening raspberries?
I don’t want to tell their stories that change the shapes to fit
Nor do I want to sing the songs that erase that phantom cadence
With my own voice.
Some lilies bloom on a rainy day.
Some of the birds eggs are found broken in the grass.
Yet clover blooms and gravel washes in rivulets.
These are the meanings I collect.
Of clouds moving in a backlit sky,
And sounds of poplars whispering of winds and hidden nests.
When I draw breath there is movement throughout my being,
Whether I am really here, understanding, or not.