Lost Things
I had a poem
and I lost it.
was it the spring grass green within the sleeves
of the river's bank?
was it emergent stones swimming
heavy in the flow?
was it geese, or was it swans? or was it leaves
homeless from last fall,
when we disturb their cardboard homes
as we clean their soily beds?
was it me? was it God? was it family?
was it Mary, theotokos,
mother of the holy child with broken arm
reaching for my heart's delight?
was it the small ones buried far away
'neath stones with restful lambs?
was I supposed to give them my love,
alive they never had?
----
notes
I am early with this, but I am busy, so up it goes. It is terribly crude.
I could have scheduled it, but then I would have to check it, and I do not wish
to return to this...for a while, at least.
4 comments:
"Crude" you say?
I say you should do crude often.
This has touched me more than many of yours in some time.
If this is residue, if this is crudeness, then I have a crude, residual heart, for I love it.
Thanks, Ruth. Wow, I meant "crude" in that it took me less than 15 minutes to write it...a true first draft.
Then I couldn't bear to go over it, because my eyes were tearing up...
You bear the world heavily in that heart of yours.
How can you not?
No one ever said that to me before.
I never thought about it.
I think I am finally becoming a true human being...
Most of us are scarcely half a man or woman, and we accept the infirmity for the rest of our lives.
How could we find happiness in bearing mankind's suffering? A true paradox...yet some have done so.
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