Sometimes, but especially each autumn, when I walk where I know you did and the wet leaves lift a little when there is no wind, I think they move in the memory of your passing. And when I pause and my shadow seems to go on in a direction I had not thought, it is you reminding me to not stray again from the path you had made for me, though so often I have chosen another way.
among thousands of graves
one drifting duck
And why have I come again, knowing there is nothing of you here but my own remembering, this pilgrimage I have made for twenty-five years, searching still for the sacred place in me that you prepared and I in my years have lost. Soon snow will cover my coming and going, simplify and clarify this ground but not what it holds, nor what I have long buried here.
beneath the autumn oak
But I can say to you now that I have come farther than ever before, can say at last the prayer that had always caught in my throat: please forgive me for loving you less in your life than now I do in this death.
the sound of the bell
between its sounding
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2015-10-08 at 16:39
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