A poem, 3/7/12.
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| Fog on the Southport Bridge, Boothbay, Maine |
A strange thing, this grief,
Something like being born again;
A harbor blanketed with dense fog,
My hands groping for something,
Anything to touch, a stranger wandering
Ahead, or a hedge marking new fields.
Sad melodies, harmonies sweet,
Dissolve into salty tears and desolation,
That something, someone is forever lost.
Recalling the chill of death on his
Abandoned forehead.
Stinging death, stinging life.
Feeling something sharp, unknown but close,
Feeling nothing too, just numb,
I test the measure of each step to see if
Old habits, familiar paths can bear this weight.
I don't know.
All faith seems summed up there:
I don't know.
I wish to welcome this heaviness, as my only
Friend today.
Weight pressing on some hardened part
Of my heart, softens and strengthens
In a single gasp, a tear, a wailing that
Comes from some vein of spirit
Cut open now, but old as these hills.
How does that ancient song go?
I lift up mine eyes.
From whence cometh.
From whence cometh.
From whence cometh.
I really don't know.
