To write about you after you are gone is
to lie back on a snow bank, feel
the freezing crunch of swinging arms
and legs, silhouetting angels
against an endless white, and then–
to wait until July to try
and describe the silver moon, the
crisp breath, the goosebumps on my arms
from flakes slipping up my sleeves.
To find hollyhocks boasting blooms
of pinks and whites and burgundies,
arranging them in a bundle,
watching them explode the dining
room table with perfumed color,
and then– to wait until they have
wilted, died, crumpled and been cleared ,
to try and explain to someone
all that this empty vase once held.
To shout at the mirror, the rain,
the wood burning in the fireplace,
knowing no amount of hindsight
can heal what had to unravel,
knowing no possible warning
could have prevented it. Knowing
that rain only knows how to hurl
itself headlong to the pavement,
knowing that a log, already
on fire, splits it’s body open to
offer more of itself to burn.
Chhonee Zamoo Namgyel 