His Love

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.

Within it,

not around it,

is the love that sustains me. . .

Aaron's love.