it just might be that as we fly
through this life we leave a contrail
of dazzling light, color and refraction
certainly smell, I know that for sure
and memory triggers for others to find out on their routes
like sniffing posts for bygone dogs:
an angel has passed this way, and wow
what a beauty it was by all apparent scents-
photographs….

take all this, the collected essence
of the passing of beings beyond description and sink it into
bits of paper, and cover them with years and nuance
take away the human minds that knew these people-
where they came from, what games they played, how they cried
when teased or jollied and how they smiled when you loved them clearly-
leave it all in a box, and put it out in the middle of my so called
living room, and there I am, sitting, witness to all
of this that has passed away beneath the bridge, like Pooh-sticks in a dream.

When we see that this is truth, it should sink into the earth
down beyond the deepest vision, birthing black holes, new suns above,
dripping fish and spawning babies; dancing apples; peaches; pears;
cloudy mornings just after the rain but really
it weighs little in this world’s terms, just another of the many things
that make no sense, when you pause, mid step and give it wonder.
there are more moments here, it seems to me, than all the stars I see at night,
how can that be? how is this given?
only my eyes, only mine, the gateway and the telling mouth
through which these memories find their focus,
bring the people and animals, divine, back into this life again;
they stand about me, smiling.

and then it comes, as in the past, when I ask aloud to no one there
who will see these stories moving, when I have gone outside to play and failed to come home in time for supper and never made
it to bed that night? is that the point? does it even matter?
it is only small mind that dares to think that the present
can or is defined by that which we hold in our hands
bits of paper, a passing smell, and the habit of
carrying it all in a box, the charred remains
of the one true cross

give yourself this, they say to me, give yourself this
small piece of pie; cherish the bite that you have bitten
it’s part and parcel of who we are
don’t deny the being you wear, tooled and scarred
like well rubbed leather, the passing of time is part of the charm
being human brings with it a grace, to love the ones we fail to see
but we are never without their presence; they exist in full outside this box.

I pick my playmates for the day, some to scan and some to share
some to look at deep in feeling, see their eyes now fill the room-
the rest will wait, with their agreement, contain their light to
one small spot
as if this was the summation of all they are
but in their kindness they wish for me to know that
they are always here and I am welcome to
walk among their paths, when the wind is cold
and my heart needs the comfort of
things gone by-