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–

GKGO_1112to 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,

43914625_207840396812320_4936398031455272067_nwatching 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.7a620d8f-dad9-4213-ba64-cafec83d1223



In the soaring sky I searched for an ember of life.

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