For Lena, who is gone too soon
There is leaving for the living,
and grieving for the leaving.
The have-left, well, they do not hear,
for they have sprouted wings and flown,
faraway beyond the grace and dark
of unequivocal night. Somehow
it is cold, the very air we breathe,
heavy like cold cream, even colder inside.
Beyond which that has ended,
in great reluctance, bruised hearts clutch
warmed stones to their bosoms, searing
anguish on their shouldered shores,
watching and waiting. Still the living grieve.
On black water, the cool trickling between their toes,
watching and waiting, and nothing comes back.
There is leaving and grieving,
between the twain a baffling divide
that is grey, bruised, threadless.
We empty ourselves of hope,
spend it all on graces, hoping
that one fleeting thought could
follow you downwind, and fly away with you.
But the cold turns greyer, our gazes
bleaker with despair. For nothing comes back.
Not even the clocks, with their jewels and
chains, could rewind time, the final flowing of cold.
The night would not end. The music is over
but the night would not end. Blacker and deeper
grey shadows loom, their fingers ensnarled.
cradling as we seat on collapsible chairs,
the white lake where your body rests.
Between leaving and grieving,
I close my eyes, waiting and wanting;
but the leaving has left, and flown,
faraway from unequivocal night,
into heavens of dreaming;
I close my eyes, dreaming of angel wings:
oh how they gleam gently, where warm roses reside.
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I'm sure some of you might have heard about the fatal car accident in Canada that left a young girl dead.
I knew her. She was destined for greatness. And now she is gone.
This past week I've attended three wakes, each equally wrenching. And it's not easy for the grieving, it's really not easy.