Time’s ominous perpetual precipice looms,
Darkly beckoning with gilded motives.
The student’s curse worming insidiously throughout the best intentions
The enemy’s ticking fingers foreshadow their fate,
But like blinded deer, we frolic obliviously,
Blissfully remiss in our duty as the forgiven.
Twilight nears, but we are still frozen in the sun.

There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Navy blue marble mornings,
Still clinging to the shiver of darkness.
Aching in my fingers and ears
Evidencing the zephyr's unkind caress.
An oppressive silence devouring cars and footsteps,
Pets and conversation.
Yet it is embraced, the stillness a balm,
Lending wise council within the maelstrom of thought.
Remarkably conducting the chaos into a concerto.
City stars keeping a staccato beat on the horizon,
A silent purpose statement in the ebb of the valley.
Ay, there's the rub.
How does one free the oppressed who are convinced they are free?
Like elephants bound in twine,
They are potently capable,
Needing only to see past sin's ostentatious facade.
But like the caged bird, they celebrate premature freedom.

The wistful wind tugs at me,
Willing me to come out and play.
I can see it tickling the barren November branches,
See its aftermath in the chaos of crunchy leaves.
Cotton-tail clouds yield before it,
And it wriggles into the core of flustered students,
Who flee from it and clasp their jackets more tightly about them.
I embrace the breeze, its chill enveloping and ensnaring me.
It brings moisture to my eyes and chafes my chapping lips,
Yet it is within this maelstrom that I am reminded of my own vitality.
I am hyper-aware of my own temperature,
98.6 in stark contrast to its harsh ice.
I can feel my blood pumping sluggishly,
Steadily, beneath my fragile skin.
I am reminded of my own mortality.
The pulse could cease,
And the universe would not stop its song.
The fish would stay in rhythm and harmony,
And there would still be new life and beauty.

A sobering thought, but freeing as well.

I am not the center, not even close.

Smoky tendrils waft out now and then,
shards of discomfort,
fragments of rage.
Yet for now I maintain my peaceful facade:
the optimist, thinker,
the dreamer.
The musician, listener,
the leader.
But I do wonder what will become of the blaze of words I don't say.

It probably hurts the most because it wasn't about me.
The squish, the warm glow, starkly empty.
That wisdom, the wit, the caring concern,
My unheeded affections already in urn.
I fostered ignorant hope, tentative dreams,
I shudder to think of all my unfruitful schemes.
There's wounded pride, yes. A small sadness, too.
But now I just pray it was unknown to you.

The risk is too weighty; the loss, too immense.
The words, once relinquished, maybe not worth the expense.
Part of me wonders, but that small fragile hope
Knows that if I'm mistaken, all that remains is to cope.
So now, I will wait. Bide my time, bite my tongue,
Like the coward I am. But there is still breath in my lungs...

To each of us is given a treasure
A talent, a gift, for good or for ill.
Yet squandered, it festers, rotting, impure;
Waste, unless given of loving free will.
It's tempting to hide it; easier, sure.
There are those who'd exploit it, mock it, and laugh
But fearful withdrawal is never the cure.
And those who would scorn it don't matter by half.
So try everything! Paint, write, dance, sing songs.
The world waits for you, a gleaming blank slate
The more that you try, your language belongs,
That secret soul language only we can create.
So on to the clumsiness, embrace defeat
For in that strange newness is your true heartbeat.

Well, we have an answer.
SUIDs
Sudden Unexpected Infant Death Syndrome.
A mercy- not something we caused.
Not something we missed.
And a curse- not something we can prevent
Not something we can brace ourselves for.

We can see the light filtering through--
Our happy dog.
Peaceful porch time.
The quiet munching of our snails,
such a precious and humble microcosm.

And we are so grateful not to be alone.
The prayers are tangible.
God is still here.

But our crippling loss left us with phantom pains and questions-
When will we be okay?
How will we be okay?
Will we ever be okay?
At least we don't know together.

Yes, I'm fine
At least on a cerebral level.
I trust the Lord.
And I can make plans and French toast and start the dishwasher and make a grocery list.

That's progress. That's not nothing.

But my mind is no longer safe.
In the spaces of the night,
the shards of memory and forgetting pierce me equally. Every room of our house contains landmines.  

When some well-intentioned well-wisher asks the wrong question,
my pulpy heart is still shredded and ****** just below the surface.

And yes, I'm angry.
Not with God,
not with fate,
but maybe with you.

Kindly allow me to grieve.
Allow me to take the space that I need without having to justify it.
Don't ask me about work.
Don't ask me if I cry.
Don't ask me why I think my baby died and who I blame.
Don't ask me to demonstrate my sadness to you in a coffeeshop, in a bathroom, in our front yard.

I promise, we are devastated.
Our lives will never be the same,
never be the bright future that we imagined for our family.
And I'll always wonder why we couldn't keep him alive.
I don't need you to tell me it was not my fault.
We are without guile- we couldn't have loved him or cared for him any more,

but the fact remains that it was not enough.

Please allow us :
to feel
and reveal
and conceal that as we wish-
it feels like that at least is more attainable than wishing our sweet baby could come back to life.
Or wishing we could join him
and be put out of this breathtaking misery, this sword of Damocles that anyone can trigger without warning or even knowledge of their ramifications.

Yes, we are fine.

Pt 2
You cannot come with us-
You cannot help.
For some reason, this pain has been appointed to us.
We have been entrusted with this loss.
We must be stewards of grief- reflecting hope while our earthly dreams are shattered.
Looking for good when we feel shrouded by the pit of despair.

How are we doing now?
Fine,  great even, all things considered!
As good as we could be.
Considering that our hearts stopped right at 10:00 on September 4th, though the first was slightly before.
Considering in one beautiful Saturday morning,
a year, a lifetime of dreams for a lifetime suddenly twisted into the most real nightmare.
Am I remembering to breathe?
When was the last time I ate?
Or have I not stopped eating?
I'm trying to fill this big belly that used to be so full of hope.
What can help us now
All things considered?

I planted this body when I died.

I relinquished my rights,
As an adult, as a female, as an American.

I sacrificed my precious
minutes and hours and days,
And served my own head on a silver platter.

I let you be right when I'm not sure, peeling back my layers
of pride and facade and fear
to be vulnerable and brave and honest.

I stood up to pour endless glasses of water.

How can I help but to give away
my bed and my food and my coat?
Of course.

I give what I can't keep
to gain what I can't lose.

All I want
is to love so hard
that you can't help but to see Jesus
when you look at me.

All I want
is to glimpse Jesus
next time I glance in the mirror.

And when it's time,
I'll die again,
and plant this physical body, too.