Mar 23
O my dearest —
how many volumes
does it take
to birth a cathedral
The heavy tomes
now stacked
against the grieving sunset —
stone and paper
bearing down on the dusk
Here you built this city
the roads
the bustling houses
buzzing with gifted breath
The libraries hush
heavy with you —
your gentle handprint
on the spines
your smile
stitched into the walls
The gardens bloom
their roots drunk on your name
flowers
trees
and bees
that find honey
in your step
So much of you remains —
in the sky’s pale hush
in the walls
of spring and autumn
curtains billowing
your name
your creed
In fathers
in mothers
in forebears and children —
soft replicas
learning slowly
how to miss
how to grieve
You
the colossal
To my sweet grandmother, may you find peace and happiness where ever you are, thank you for blessing us with your life and being.
