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and for me by hil hoover

It’s the sweetness of a tale well told, 

or a treat handed over in the dark 

from stranger or devoted friend, 

the playfulness of being someone 

else for a little while, or being just ourselves 

unfettered, 


The remembrance of the dead, for some of us, 

or the desire to chase away what might frighten

by indulging in that same fear, 

but always, a unique flavor, 

a thing to savor, 

a beautiful bright burning light 

in the darkness. 


And for me, 

this scampering away from everything else, 

from the living world that insists I stay 

another year, another heartache, another 

hungry, frozen, desperate season, 

to your side, 

to a home long gone. 


There is so little food for the feast this year, 

but I bring what I can, fry bread on the stove 

from the last of the flour, apologize for the lack of 

cake, fill the basket with poetry and my 

love instead. 


Pretend my most comforting image of 

Death has not been slightly tarnished by 

the broken reputation of my favorite 

childhood author, pretend that I am 

still the child who could sleep 

in the graveyard and be happy 


Pack up my basket of beautiful dreams 

and meet your ghost - perhaps - 

in the moonlit graveyard 

one more year 

for the date your 

death canceled 

all those 

years ago. 

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1 Comment


durham42
Nov 01

Very, very moving. My heart goes out to you.

You write so beautifully.

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