~

          it is a poignant thought...
          that in this life
          we often know more of a thing
          by its absence
          than by its presence;
          that we do not know,
          yes,
          truly know…
          love,
          in all
          its ins,
          its outs
          until life
          ends…
          

         for they who pass over         yet for they who remain
          to the other side,          on this other side,
       love to them becomes          love to them becomes
     a love transforming          a love of mourning
        an all-surrounding,         an all-surrounding,
             unconditional,          pained condition,
      a love ever-warming          a love ever-wanting
         and more perfectly          and more palpably,
         touchable, immutable,         touchable, immutable,
     and in its presence is         and in its absence is
more contentment          more torment
   and happiness         and distress
       a one belonging         an ever-longing
       love          love
         than any         than any
       theretofore         heretofore
        known;         known.
  
        ~

post script.  

this musing is the result of reading your beautiful poetry
this morning and seeing how many wrote of heartbreak…
whether through death, divorce, break-up or misunderstanding,
each lends to the knowledge of what love is not
and therefore to what love is.  
this plain is such a broken place, it is truly a wonder
any of us ever experience any love at all…
and yet thankfully we do.

*(creating columns on HP is at best a difficult proposition.  of course the format changes from device to device.  after much work this looks acceptable on my laptop, my ipad, and on my smartphone in landscape view only.  my smartphone in portrait view... not so much! :) however you choose to view it, enjoy!)

My poems are
lost down a shady grove,
They've taken up residence,
In a rainbow room,
Reflections cast on four white walls,
Whispered from this closing tomb,
Singing songs no one knows,
Poems lost in airy ether,
No one knows where they go.

My poems ride the winds,
Cascading down,
Tumbling into oceans
to be buried within,
When no one is looking,
They rise again.
It has been said
in space, no one can hear you scream,
Silence known far to well.

My poems are silence
in a darkened room
banging on consciousness door
to be set free,
Thought bubbles floating
in the breeze,
Set free, finally.

Pop.