July storms

July storms

a white-wood porch

the heavy drizzle

heat receding from the air.

We sat with just enough cover

we still felt a mist

from sideways rain.

The kitchen window open,

dishes clinking.

Mom at work.

Dad at rest,

watching the storm.

This small town kid

sees the big storm.

How powerful.

Does he know someday

he’ll get an education.

What will they tell him?

Mom shouldn’t be in the kitchen.

Dad has white privilege.

Son has white privilege.

The innocence was a lie.

He won’t believe it,

but everyone else does.

He will sit on the porch again,

forget all he was told.

This is his life,

watching a storm.

Requiem

How times fluxes strangely
from the death of a loved one
until her interment.

Sobs wretch so forcefully
at the news,
that grief won't speak; it can't.

They days between are numb,
nothing real about them,
the worst kind of dream.

And then that loved one, you know
will walk through that door. No,
they are lowered slowly to rest.

Last, the dream is over,
a soul free,
but you have awaken.
And the pain is real.

Aeternam.

What a funny thing

Every second passes a tick faster,

but the change is so gradual it seems

 it almost makes no difference.

Sometimes you feel as if the past

 is within your reach, within your grasp.

  Then a birthday comes and goes,

      just as another Christmas passes.

You were sure this would be the year

that you would spend Christmas in Florida

 and relive that college trip.

The time got away though, it seems.

You have children now, but they are aging too,

   aging right out of your hands.

Time is running even from them

even in their youth.

How very busy you were raising them

making sure they had all the time in the world

when they were old enough,

you took them to Disney.

But the time came soon

       when they were too old to return.

You dropped your oldest at college,

and surely it was only the next day

  that she was getting married to that boy.

You remember him, don’t you? The one she met

  the day you dropped her at school.

It’s too late to matter now. Their children are born

     and all you can do is love every minute.

     Every smile. Every fall. Every laugh.

     Your husband is gone now. Your family is left.

But you’re ready. Time is up.

All you have left are memories of memories,

and love. Soft love.

Time has released you. Let go.