Let Go of Two

I let go of two;

They died weeks and

  months ago.

Yet when I

smart-phone scroll

Past M and C

they momentarily

resurrect and die again,

Over and over,

which is much

more difficult than

the final

Delete.

Creekside

One dry foot then the other enters the cool liquid transient surface

Water pooling and splashing, making

its

     smooth way down

Step, step,

along the gravel mossy bottom

Almost painful,

                           surely pleasurable

Stay, stay,

let it slide past

on its way to who knows where

some unseen gravity beckoning you

   Down,

       down,

            down

Time, where are you going?

Tiny Bones

Milky femur in round pebble nest, a dozen hues of nature’s brown grey palette

If this femur were mine, it would rest in boulders

Instead of its beach gravel grave

Too fresh and graphic on the bony scarred heels

Of the funeral of my 80-year-old mother

This soft beach image wells waves of dammed unexpected tears

Solace

Sorrow

Picture after picture,

Click after click

The hummingbird sits

Waiting in perfect patience

Not leaving, until my distracted

Eyes return to my page of words,

My heart heaving out its

Long overdue tears.

Is she with You

Now, Dad?

Can my sorrowful

Worry for Mom

Stop?

Can I know

She is not Lost,

Not waiting

At some in between

Place we allowed her

To go to before you

Might have been ready to greet her and welcome

Her back?

Silence

Is it time to just miss

Her when random flickers

Of long-submerged memories

Scorch into my mind?

Is that her soothing

Her child’s sobbing heart?

Solace

The car waits nearby while I visit

Your grave;

Are those squirrels in the tree

A vision of the cheerful

Couple that you two are again?

Is the hummingbird on the

Willow branch a

Mother’s distraction

To soothe this teary mourning

Middle-aged girl?

Sorrow

I Can't Even Tell

I can’t even tell

That the grass was

Dug up

Beside my father’s

Headstone, to lay

My mother to rest

Beside him;

Only six weeks since

We gave up.

There are no more

Scars in the Earth and

Grass under the willow

Tree which weeps over

His stone.  Her grave has no

Stone yet to make it real,

To shake my

Dream state denial.

But her empty house, my

Empty-ache heart, and my

Unheard phone calls

To Mom

Are more than real enough

Wounds for now.

Full

Full on horse happy

Satiated with equine

Nurtured

for the entire week

With Sunday pony ride nibbles

Orphan

Dear Mom,
Last night I woke at 3:17 and
you softened into my dream-drowsy awareness.
I don't remember the
last time
I cried myself back to sleep.
It's been one month since you left
me,
a 51-year-old
orphan.