Poems From The Porch
Deadwood serves a purpose.
It houses food for hungry woodpeckers.
What purpose does your death serve?
What nutrients are found within the dust of your carcass?
I see a hawk gliding in the field,
searching for a hidden meal.
His quest mirrors my own.
I'm hungry, but cannot eat.
No taste is found in my mouth.
I'm weary of the metaphors of autumn
recalling the necessity of letting go
before the barrenness of winter
provides the space for the buds of spring to emerge.
Solace is not found in the hope of a future.
Don't tell a grieving heart that everything gets easier in time.
Better to stay present with the pain that acknowledges deep love,
to rest in the gratitude and heartache
for the graced beauty of a simple life together.
Don't try to take my pain away
because that is the deadwood that I am pecking.
not around it,
is the love that sustains me. . .