At The End
He was so old his bones seemed to swim in his skin.
And when I took his hand to feel his pulse
I felt myself drawn in. It was as faint
As the steps of a child
Padding across the floor in slippers,
And yet he was smiling.
I could almost hear a river
Running beneath his breath.
The water clear and cold and deep.
He was ready and willing to wade on in.
The war had turned inward until it resembled
Suicide. The only soothing thing was water.
I passed the sentries, followed the surf out of sight.
I would sink into the elements, become simple.
Surf sounds like erasure, over and over.
I lay down and let go, the way you trust an animal.
When I opened my eyes, all down the strand
Small crabs, the bright yellow of a crayon,
Had come out onto the sand. Their numbers, scattered,
Resembled the galactic spill and volume of the stars.
I, who had lain down alone, emptied,
Waked at the center of ten thousand prayers.
Who would refuse such attention. I let it sweeten me
Back into the universe. I was alive, in the midst
Of great loving, which is all I've ever wanted.
The soldiers of both sides probably wanted just this.
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Hope is a thing....
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
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