The Next Day
There are times when as a writer
you must practice forbearance.
Some evenings the pall of death
is so heavy halfway around the world
that you search for paper and pen
to try and make your sense of it.
Better to go mow the emerald grass
in diagonal rows and pull purple thistles
from the fence and startle the grey rabbit
beneath the shade tree and speak to your
very much alive neighbors as they walk by
while the summer wind chills the sweat inching
down your back and for reasons unknown you suddenly recall the sinful smell of your grandfather’s tobacco mingled with the memory of the tears in your wife’s eyes as the doctor placed your firstborn son in the crook of her arm and life demanded on.
while the summer wind chills the sweat inching
down your back and for reasons unknown you suddenly recall the sinful smell of your grandfather’s tobacco mingled with the memory of the tears in your wife’s eyes as the doctor placed your firstborn son in the crook of her arm and life demanded on.
Oh, such tragic truth in this, John.
*sigh* such beauty in these words
[…] via The Next Day. […]
Particularly lovely John. Your words make me think, and remember a time last year when I was the happiest I’ve been in my whole life – and then a friend’s sad news came in. I let her news overtake the short-lived happiness I had. And I needed to learn, when we have good things, we can still give empathy to the others, but focusing on our own good life does deserve a priority after all. “Very much alive” and happy deserves our attention too, and sometimes as you’ve written, instead. Your words today are highly re-re-re-readable! Best wishes, Ali
Sometimes, it’s just hard to hear/bear it all. Better to mow and listen to the chickadee saying “excuse me” so politely.
Came the day of the birth of my granddaughter and I am grateful as I try to comprehend Israel’s invasion, the Malaysian aircraft shot from the sky. Thank you.