Ash

We could wish it were so.
We could wish it were.
But there is no voice
to fill the void.
What care we used to take
with pen and paper —
when meaning something
meant something to us.

We no longer touch each other.
We no longer see each other.
We no longer hear each other.
And we no longer believe
what anyone says.

Our good guide
is lost or dead,
cutting short
our ramblings.
And we choose insensibility
over pain.

Lately I sense
you are breaking
your habits of independence,
and can’t help
but lament the loss —
but maybe’s it’s
just one of those things:
how we only desire
when desire can’t be fulfilled.

And I’ve been told
time and again,
that to find happy
you have to fake happy.
It’s never worked for me.

Today the smoke and sky
stretch thin and gray
across the meadow’s
expired grasses and goldenrod.
And the winter birds —
cardinals and jays,
chickadees and sparrows,
finches, redbellies and juncos,
and always the bluebirds —
are sleepy,
but watchful.

And with feet heavy
as our hearts,
we bring out the torch
and set fire
to this faded joy,
that something —
unexpected or familiar —
might find the light
and grow up in its place.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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