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—————————–“The real aim is not to see God
—————————–in all things, it is that God, through us,
—————————–should see the things that we see.”
—————————–– Simone Weil


the bones of dream break the light


spoons lifted from the drain board
to spend time in the yogurt bowl
beside the plate of steaming scones
that no one will eat today


road down to the fishing hole
damp from fog garter snake making
a gritty path from grass to gravel
and back to grass
later the trout stares at the shadow
recognizes a familiar adversary
a stricken man standing on the shore
waving a rod at the cloudy sky
crying for his now gone wife
the workers in the graveyard pause
by the church to catch their breath
from hard digging parched earth
soon the plain box joins the worms
in the practice of disappearing


hard to chew the bitter salad
bread butter lettuce black forest ham
the radio announcing the funeral to
unfold with stiff suits and shiny shoes
as they gather for a final sad ritual
knowing the world is empty of the arms
that once held all those loves close
and together


shadows emerge from behind the barn
two small boys chase butterflies across
the mustard fields yelling yellow
sadness not holding them back from play
the laundry dries on the line
out the back door while inside carpets
are hoovered of clumsy visitor crumbs
jars of peaches put up on the shelf
of preserves resting in the cool basement
grandmother keeping busy grieving


saucers of beet pickles join in sorrow
the lamb chops slathered with mint jelly
and the big hands of the solemn
gravediggers squeeze the juice from
the lemons over fresh-picked asparagus
the grandmother pushes the heaping
bowl of steaming potatoes toward them
takes a swallow from her whisky glass
and mumbles a brief prayer
of solace in the direction of her son
and grandsons now bereft of rainbows
adrift in depthless sorrows


the old woman rises heart weary
from the chair near the window
curtains stir ghost swept whispers
between the bone dry trees outside
constant cricket scratching
a circle of light over the barn door
where the animals huddle waiting
for the familiar caregiver to return
to nurture them as with her children
who too are nodding into the sorrow
that will last beyond all knowing
and deprive their dreams of rest


laying in cold beds the ceiling stares
wonders to behold will have to wait
until the dark weather passes



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