~

her tears flow easily
on the shoreline,
with each swell
their bitter rise;
she weeps between
the crashing waves,
carried...
with the ripping tide,
sobbing...
with each heaving crest.
’tis on these rocks
her heart was torn,
her thirsty soul
here cries unquenched,
clinging to
this coast forlorn...
this churning,
salty brine,
where nothing
stills the beating,
not the bleeding
of her heart,
though her blood
has all run dry;
nor the cracked rib
’neath her breast,
though its piercing shards
erase her cries.

i lie here weeping
’tween these lines,
her nightly tears
and sleepless sighs,
white-capped sheets
her stormy bed,
churning shoulders,
tossing head;
for hope seems lost
when hope is best
an ocean’s grave,
a watery rest.
life's minutes counted
’til they’re gone
will only cease
their restless throes
when heaven’s gates
o'ercome her foes.

~

post script.

*her smile... ’tis a thin veil o'er a razor's edge
that conceals a mother’s bleeding heart

the month of his birth
and the month of his departure...
despite the twenty-five years between,
follow in such close succession.  
like a Holy Week all her own,
each step, each word, each task,
each i-remember-where-i-was-
when-i-heard-the-news,
relived in painful remembrance.
Lent... Holy Week... the Easter season...
with all its rich and meaningful traditions,
now includes our breaking bread and
drinking wine in our heartfelt
communion of his memory and
helps us to better understand
the heart of our loving Father above