Let us understand the need
To scrub the endless grieving from one’s soul
Finally putting an end to such plague
To act as one’s own sage, and burn sage
Cleansing away for good any more weeping
Let us find a willingness
To pray for ourselves aloud, on our knees
Knowing we are our own savior sometimes
To be alright with alone
Because we are so tragically, entirely alone
You’ll take away my grey hair, you will. Magically. Replace each one with the perfect shade of pink champagne. And I’ll be sixty like that. And smiling big from our gentle conversations.
You’ll have my willing green eyes, you will. Automatically. Value simple bike rides without analyzing the weather. And the air in your wings. And so what when the rain pelts your seasoned skin?
You’ll battle my worst tendencies, you will. Tragically. Celebrate the good and bad of them. And together, we’ll love the humble. And Conqueror will be your second middle name.
The learned vixens
How did they know
How may I hear it
More tenderly though
Will half-open soft eyes
And low heartfelt voice
Ease the blow
Or best to re-frame
There is no dark day
Coming for you
That you cannot handle
I knew they knew
I’m encouraged to channel my anger,
to sit with it. Take it to tea.
“So, you’re real,” I’d say, half looking away, hoping it would not take note of me.
“Is this about the table I bought you for Valentine’s Day?” I’m sure it would respond, looking at me in its superior way. “Because I was sick of looking at the other one,” it’d quip.
Sigh. Seeing its sad state of insight
and a lack of rhythm or kind goal,
“I release you,” I’d murmur, feeling more self-assured, “but I’ll take back my eyes, mind and soul.”