(A Poem One Year Later)
The Spring Elijah died
came easy, Winter wandering away
down its easy path.
And energy rose eagerly, unexpected
to the tasks of the day,
surprising everyone and me.
I counted all the little blessings,
even tiny socks,
and stood to tell the story
only 4 days too soon,
a testimony to what would seem later
only a cruel joke from God or Fate or Satan.
The Spring Elijah died I hoped
but I knew the truth I dreaded,
as I sat Waiting, Wishing, Praying,
in the welcome, warming sun,
shining white brilliance against blue
through still-barren tree tops
silhouetting the sky.
That day preceded the grey day.
Gloomy, dark. Maybe there was rain?
We drove through rice fields,
dirt roads, flocks of geese.
Drove and Drove and stopped for lunch
in a crowd of oblivious farmers
with their friends and precious ones,
no idea of their blessings or my loss...
The Spring Elijah died
our friends surrounded us
with words and without,
with touch, with space, with food,
with stories of their own to tell.
We were held, but we were broken,
on and on like ocean waves,
unrelenting in their crashing...
Yet it ended all too soon,
violently, with ice cream, and pure, total exhaustion.
Tears, sleep, and randomly, a concert.
So out of place, but a good distraction
for a few minutes.
The Spring Elijah died
was gone too soon.
Hyacinths, Tulips, beauty of bloom,
faded rather quickly into dryness,
Wilt. We planted a garden doomed.
Even though we planted more,
no bloom lasted long, long enough.
And we were swept away, still aching,
by life's Day's: demands and deadlines.
There were puppies I didn't love at first.
How wrong to bury your own but the dog's are ok...
And then they weren't and that was worse.
The pain of the world seemed all mine to bear
for a time, and it was too much.
But then it wasn't.
