When the clouds roll flat and slow across the sky, just like a moving airport walkway, and the bird feeders swing like wind chimes in the bare trees, you'll be coming home to me.
When I see the look in my old friends' eyes, and just by looking, I can read their thoughts and silences, you'll be thinking of me too.
When I hear of the suffering and death of other's loved ones, and struggles with pain and passing, I wonder what your death will be like. Will I see it, or will it come after mine? Will we find each other after the great divide? Or just sift back into the soft earth like candle wax into a tablecloth? Will our sparks unite? Will my spirit flame out like a sparkler, while your light just snuffs out? Will you reincarnate into a wizard from a phantasmal novel? A big brown dog? A bug named after a month?
When the ice is so fragile and newly frozen that it looks like cellophane, when the dusk darkens like a bad mood, you'll be halfway home.
When the moon's face pops out of the cirrus clouds to play peek-a-boo with me, and laughs at my sadness, you'll be touching down. And then what? Will you chide me for not eating enough of the leftovers? Oh well, I win: you are missing Garrison Keillor. Will I overcook the pasta writing this poem? I think not.
I'll love you anyway.
-SLG
Very nice. You are amazing.
ReplyDelete