Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Shrine: a poem

It’s cold again, too soon. Finding warm socks
and my favorite flannel makes me think of you,
as does putting water on for tea, and the quiet
gray of the afternoon. I know this won’t always
be so, and even now my brain is charting new
pathways that won’t lead me to thoughts of you,
and you will get lost in the overgrowth of new.
New life. Lived life. I want to build a shrine 
on the forest path we walked together, a place 
for the winter boots you left behind, the brass 
candlesticks, the pages torn out of books you
tucked in pockets, the cleft in your chin, your 
strong body, your tears and your anger. I will 
make an offering: there in the ferns, under the 
aspen and birch, among the pines, I will lay 
them to rest. There they will have a place on 
the earth, resting in the arms of the goddess,
resting in the arms of the woman I was when
I was with you, the woman you imagined into 
being, the woman who loved the man you were 
struggling to become. Right there, in the ferns, 
on the fertile earth of the forest floor, the life we 
never lived will take root, for how could it not 
grow there?

No comments:

Post a Comment