(Note: Poems beginning March 20, and some in April, 2019, deal with grief. Return to writings prior to March for poems of a different nature.)
If only I knew what was your favorite
star, or flower, river or tree,
poem, or hymn, or memory,
then I’d have riches to count in the spring—
rivers to sail, songs I could sing.
If only I knew how you lived with disease,
with heartbreak or failure, and loved ones leaving,
with parents passing—your aching, grieving,
how you were buoyed by your faith, your believing—
how like a soldier you kept on living.
If only I’d seen the place you’d be buried,
and understood why you wanted to be.
Now I know that you’re nearby a stream,
or behind a church, or in my dream—
or a garden, or beneath an old apple tree.
If I could be certain you still feel my love
sure as a star that shines in the dark,
then I’d be ready to live with my heart,
to face any minute or day apart—
to wake like the sun—to walk, to start.
