If I stoop to gather up Shell,
she will sit like Tinkerbell
in my hand.
Sky cries for her
on Tuesdays
I think its easier
to grieve on a regular basis
she says
Saves those
moments of
stagger step
oh my God realizations
which halt me
midway through a sentence
When we talk of Shell
the air softens
and sound
deadens
Life is muted beneath
the Grey outstretched membranous
wings of deaths hover
as if the rest of the Universe
can afford this small allowance
a tithe of respect
We visit infrequently together now
Sky braves Shells quiet dignified resolve
more readily than I
I want to be
untouched
No funeral
Shell says
her voice
the barest hint of breeze
across the tops of
thin green reeds
Her words
barely cause a ripple
yet
her dying
pushes out
in a wave
to lap upon us.
2 comments:
Gorgeous! This is so delicate and touching. You had me at 'Tinkerbell' and went on to,
'her dying
pushes out
in a wave'
wonderful finish. The whole poem has the unmistakable signature of authenticity.
Thanks mate, tough road this lovely lady has to travel, let me tell ya, the least I can do is chronicle it in the best way I know how.
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