When the giants on the landscape begin to disappear;
when the fond and affectionate ones we hold slip through our grasp -
gentle finger tracery
hoping to draw some light
as we part ever so slowly
in full conscious view
of the painful and steady
fading away,
emptiness fills our pockets as do tears and sorrow and a listless staring into desire trying to get ourselves up from the dirt.
We scream louder
and in desperation
- like the circling hawk trying to scare out a rabbit; scare out a squirrel.
Who is there?
Show yourself.
How have we gotten here?
How could we have changed the ending -
Could we have screamed out a word to have kept her safe? Could we have circled one more time to flush Death out from the
underbrush?
Back there, before all this came to be was there a walk that would have prevented a shadow on that screen.
Was there a dinner that could have purged the blood of disease.
Our cells scream out to know how we could have written this ending differently.
We clamber for truth as if there were a bottom to this thing called life. The bottom just goes on - no place to rest today;
none tomorrow.
The greyness of the sky make the leaves greener,
the moisture of the rain browns-up the trunk.
Is it only by comparison that we can move away from the pain we find under our shoes?
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