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Morning would not budge nor move, not even sigh,

keeping grief at bay.

Too early for liquor, of course, (it might not have helped;

such numbing doesn’t last.)

But noon refuses to show her face and

no shadow lurks.

The lost will not return for a toast, and

(try as they might) hard pews can’t

stiffen resolve against tears.

This, this too early release from gravity

weighs much,

we realize our names are written in water –

We, then, corrupters of healing

have our own uses for the silent spaces,

hung like so much 6^th grade artwork.

But what can we do when the bars aren’t open

yet and the gallery owner has run off

with the produce girl?

Liturgy or litany emerges too close

and sulfur snakes around hugging pantsuits.

Speckled hues accent purple astromeria

stripes that cannot be broached.

Loss – watery with faith but torrential without –

eulogized by a mispronounced gospel.

Afternoon sun cannot smile in south Georgia

summer, neither waiting on asphalt.

 Throwing clumps in after you is meant as salve.

And now with liquid fortifying, we realize the first

days have slipped away where we will reimagine living.

Morning

Hot biscuits steam the wilted grapes in the colander, but the moldy zucchini

was gone when I got up this morning.  What happened as I watched

over flashes of stories and dream bites? Fresh creamed butter moistens blue crockery

next to the sink, and the cloud of fruit flies has migrated.  Bitter percolations

 await sugar and milk.  Lark song repeats through the sunshined slats. 

Quiet white ripples of laughter beckon as two peaches glisten nearby.  A roach

scuttles across the linoleum.

Appearances

Too often missed dawns

reveal perfected homes.

Nests, small gossamer

treasures leap at the nose

and cling to the shoulder.

A stifled shriek wakes

still nodding buds and the

ghost of night shift work

wafts away.

Palm Sunday

A gray opening – yet unearned –

   seen in echoes,

ageless with rounded full edges,

syllables kept reserved in the

   back room: opened this day only.

Entrances envelop;

   attempts at humility are

confession

of a year’s hard word on benches

   still harder while birdsong seeps

through the color and beckons all.

Smoke dissipating leaves blued

   outlines with thirst unslaked;

so it has always been: epoch to

   century: now decade and

year.

Storing burnt fates for futures

   uncertain – a nefarious gamble:

blessing fronds as we watch

the lost

   benediction.

This victory smolders –

   branches fallen silent:

returned to the musty trunk;

   ashes and forgotten felt-backed figures:

a dark communion.