An unspeakable tragedy has befallen a friend, and I nevertheless find myself groping helplessly for words to fling into the void.
I am a box with the lid
removed, unable to hold
thought or feeling or will
for motion. Voices rattle and the wind
tears through me: funeral
and four-year-old do not belong
in the same sentence.
This feels wordy and cumbersome to me; I suppose I need to find some better words so I can use fewer of them. I can’t stay up fiddling with it any more, so here’s a poem for the eighth day of Lent.
to the suffering, death is an angel
whose feather-soft hands smooth
lines from the face and untie
to the watcher, waiting, death
is a cloud shadow that leaves
the landscape radiant
when it passes
Someone dear to me died suddenly and unexpectedly yesterday. Words are not enough, but they are all I have at the moment.
today my heart wears
sackcloth and ashes
squats dumb upon a heap of dirt
too sad even to keen
in time the One who keeps unsleeping
watch over those who struggle
will turn this mourning
into dancing, but not today