I Loved You
I wake up this morning,
warmed by feathers.
A simple dream
has braided my hair.
I smile at the sun
that beams through my window.
I role over to watch you rumple awake.
And then I remember that you are gone.
My braids unravel.
I sit up cold.
A splinter slides under my toe.
You built this house.
You designed every angle.
You sang this house
with your dreams of quilted comfort.
Again, I remember that you are gone.
I have taken to feeding the birds since you left,
I try to keep moving.
I am doing my best.
When lost in the grains of my coffee
I place you under my tongue.
Small blue tablet
disolves slowly.
A timid offering of peace.
But the pain reminds me that you are gone.
I gather my character
and exit to the chill.
The grass continues to grow.
the chicks are now hens.
the leaves have turned.
I loved you.
I could have helped you to live.
I believed I could save you.
I believed
I could
save you.
Things move more slowly now that you’re gone.
When the sound of my breathing
is crowded with reason
I retire to feathers
and roll backwards in slumber.
Grace and clemency.
In rest you appear to me,
serene, by a pool of clear, blue water.
You have come to carry me home.
And then I remember that you are gone.
