Rhythms
Words come
framed, measured, controlled –
‘I have some bad news”
how else is there to say it? Bad news is always bad
I answer in kind (and it is never enough)
how else is there to respond?
and we reflect, philosophize (chase guilt?)
we are adults
Long ago December
my father lay, dying of cancer
the rhythm of all our lives halting, breaking
in the cold, in the dark
I pruned and mulched his beloved roses
The garden is where I go
until only the cadence of the digging remains
or to weed, more the tender task
and let thoughts order themselves
In my garden of peace and tranquility
an old oil lamp softens the night
memories shimmer
on the water and disappear
as fish occasionally break the surface of the pond
To Sadie.
