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.
Very, very moving. My heart goes out to you.
You write so beautifully.