to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
It's been 27+ months since Joanne died; forever and yet only yesterday. Life is transformed. A dweller in the land of grief I think much about Joanne. One of my wonderments is how she would cope with quarantine. Would the telephone conversations, that sustain me, be enough for her. As an introvert it's quite easy to fill my 'people bladder.' Her need for people was next to insatiable, would telephone suffice? We'd certainly have opportunity for conversation and she loved The Little House.
I can say with the poet "yes, I will take you I will love you again." I have and I do!
Takk for alt
Al
 |
| The scene as I stepped out my door this morning. |
No comments:
Post a Comment