Sun-rich, in a translucent stream, breeze-free,
a thrum-sound spills endlessly to a larger river,
passing white pines like a solemn prayer.
My father died quietly
like a dragonfly over the glass-like water,
or like lark-song in a red garden of intention.
Shaken, my prayer flew indirectly
like a paper kite butterfly.
Dawn likes to swoop in
when we are sad;
but even then, loss lodges
like a peach pit in our throat.
Mourning has terraces,
revelations of love and grief,
striking like lightning
with a quiet, after-calm.
Sometimes, the soul cartwheels after death.
Sometimes, the soul is wetness on grass.
Sometimes, the soul returns with its music
and nests inside the heart
with a constant stream of memory.
I like to believe my father taps on my window
when I hear ticking rain. Perhaps it’s his pulse.
Perhaps, his memory is a stone in the river.
And when my mother died quietly,
sending a murmuring of starlings
carrying her soul into everlasting waters,
I was convinced—
Love never ends;
it’s always beginning and reaffirming.
Editor’s Note: This poem’s rich metaphor and imagery revolves around the speaker’s contemplation of death and love, and all of the stuff in between these truths.
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