for Richard, the boy who narrated life*

Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.  
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”

Life is the story of life, says the narrator.

Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.

Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.

And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.  
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."

In time the threads converge again.  
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.

The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.

The flowers that bloom in sun and shade
  And glitter in the dew,
    The flowers must fade.
The birds that build their nest and sing
  When lovely spring is new,
    Must soon take wing.

The sun that rises in his strength
  To wake and warm the world,
    Must set at length.
The sea that overflows the shore
  With billows frothed and curled,
    Must ebb once more.

All come and go, all wax and wane,
  O Lord, save only Thou
    Who dost remain
The Same to all eternity.
  All things which fail us now
    We trust to Thee.

The treatment they prescribed didn’t work and she was constantly in pain,
she couldn’t sleep and hardly ever ate;
it looked like her health was deteriorating right in front of our eyes.
She was a shadow of her former self

I like old glass
with bubbles

Pockets of breath
of the dead laid to rest

I break and I breathe and I taste

Their spices
and vices

Kisses from wives
Curses and verses

Songs of themselves
Wine of their wrath

Salt from their baths

Smoke from their fires
Sweet tastes of desire

Shared sighs and cries
Dead butterflies

Air.