by Doreen Dykers.
Grieving comes in waves
that is the last thing He said to me.
There is no separation
between the air and my skin.
It`s all one in this end-of-day
of silence and solitude
when He might speak to me again.
Right now everything is perfect,
but the tawny light will fade,
and the descent of mosquitoes is imminent.
remembering what He did for me.
Then a whiff of something rotten.
The odor wafts up from the dumpsters.
A flash of annoyance breaks my peace—
an infinity of distractions—
Gardening was good today.
A little boy, so eager
to relate, to please, to ponder,
to discover that
pansies and petunias both start with a "p."
He drove in the stake
that would support the delphinium
and tied the rope around secure.
Rays from his smile washed over me
in waves of the most genuine love.
Such beautiful skin, the colour of coffee and cream.
The running shoes he wore, in shreds.
He was not ashamed; he lives an innate dignity—
open, vulnerable, and courageous.
Yet he too would grieve,
wave after wave after wave.
It breaks my heart
to think of it.
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