I haven't blogged for awhile. Losing my soul mate, my dearest husband and the joy of my life in December made it difficult to write, to concentrate, to even make it through some days. I did write some poetry, however, and I include it here. The first poem actually proceeded December's tragedy, but I am fond of that moment and that poem, so I included it anyway.Chuck’s Leaves
Two days
after the fall sun
dried out
sodden leaf mounds,
he walked
through the trees,
kicking leaves,
sending oak, poplar,
and plate sized maple
flapping and fluttering
around himself:
the 80 year old man
with the ten year old heart.
Grief Group
After introductions,
each of us
tossed our broken hearts
into our circle.
All our sorrows exposed,
we waited,
inconsolable,
sniffling,
wiping our eyes.
Then we each selected
a few shattered pieces,
and caressing the pain,
we sorted through
the brokenness,
reassembling
our hearts.
Life Changing
The beginning
in my white suit
in his navy suit
before the minister
In between
the wedding and the death;
life was sweet, a perfumed meadow
we hiked together, caressing beauty,
pulling metaphors out of clouds,
then stuffing them in our notebooks.
The end
on a hospital gurney
I held his limp hand
knowing love never ends.
More Madness
It’s NCAA tourney time
and the March Madness
my dead husband loved so much.
I tore the brackets out
of the sports pages, leaving
them on the table for him.
He would have been sad
Duke was defeated by
a fifteenth seeded team
in the second round.
Did I say that I hate
basketball? Players squeak
and screech up and down
the court matching shots.
Announcers hype and
exaggerate every throw.
While Chuck cheered
the Sweet Sixteen, I quilted
in sewing room silence.
But that was last year.
Without Chuck, my
big black screen waits
patiently. Spanish stations
and ESPN are ignored.
But tonight, game on,
I sit in his favorite
chair, waiting his presence.
Anniversary in Hoquiam
Past the farmhouse
with the blue Statue of Liberty
on the straggly front lawn,
we drove through neighborhoods
where we first met.
On the left boarded windows
and peeling green paint
suggest that old tavern
where we would have a beer
and play shuffleboard
As we traded tales,
his stories become mine,
and mine, his.
Too Much Rain
Was it coincidence
that after my love died,
it rained all the time?
Four months it rained.
So many heavenly tears.
Did it rain because
he cried at leaving me?
Was it that this physical man
couldn’t take long walks,
play Beethoven Sonatas,
or give me passionate hugs?
Did he cry because
he did not say, “Goodbye.”
Was it because he would
not see spring lilacs bloom
or smell their perfume?
But summer approaches.
It’s cloudy, but the sun shines.
It is time for both of us
to find some peace.
Marinating in Grief
When my husband died,
the tragedy tore out my heart.
It lay cold and lonely
despite the wrappings
of many well-wishers.
Months later, I peppered
it with our common dialogue:
“Ready for our walk?”
“I’m going to Practice awhile.”
Then I salted it with memories:
the road trips to every state,
walks on the beach, roaming
through Europe’s art museums.
It was soaked with tears .
tears of loss and love.
Even softened by loss,
my heart ‘s raw forever.
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