We sense it because it comes inexorably,
this is the beginning  of good-bye.
Her eyes avert his, a touch with no
feeling, a caress more cautious than
caring, a kiss when lips do not meet,
this the beginning of good-bye.
A perfunctory placement of the hand,
a conversation moribund, sipping
scotch and sodas in silence, a call that
never comes, memories that have grown opaque,
this is the beginning of good-bye.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Trees that were green
now are brown, yellow, orange.
The grey sky lies
like a depressed woman
on hilltops and in valleys.
Where is hope? Is it
in the red and rashness
of the berries and seeds?
May I touch the fallow land
like a little country boy,
quick and peripatetic,
finding joy under cracked
leaves and limestone rocks,
hazelnuts and hickory?
The raccoon tells the deer,
"Eat the green leaf,
eat the green leaf
before it dies." Skies are grey;
trees huddle. A forest
is a place for rest.
I lie with the lizard.
I fly with the hawk.
I eat red berries.
I lap the water
that flows between
oak and walnut trees.
The white of winter comes:
I enter my heart
with the brown bear
to keep me warm.

Tuesday morning the green leaf
was bent, not broken. Red pickled
beets held up the book of San
Francisco poetry. I spread apple
butter on hot toast. To someone
less discerning, death seemed far
away. Had I not noticed the
slight curl, I might have cheered
the yellow sun. But Friday, death
came. Without lament, the leaf was
grey, not green, mud-brown and brittle.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

The air is thin. To begin
again, I must breathe. My head
is wreathed with thorns. I hear
celestial horns calling my ascension.
I must rise above this dissension. I
must put aside the flood of memories
that endear me. Blood drips from my
side where you spread me. I must
wipe the wound clean. I must flush
the meanness from my soul, to make
me heal, to make whole again.
My sins I repent;  I am spent.
O Holy Host, deliver me:
forgive her, forgive me.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

Let the sun shine again.
Let it filter through my mind

and warm away the cold
and melt away the doubts

and burn away the sorrow
and cauterize the sore.

Let it bleach the blackness bright.
Let the sun shine again.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks

The way we cry, and
if our cryings be heard,
the way they are attended to
will set the walk. The way we
are treated as toddlers, the way
punishment may be meted out,
will further the course. Kind-
nesses, magnanimity of spirit,
love--all will determine not only
the paths we are led down, but
also the paths we shall set for
ourselves and travel ourselves--
pathos, bathos, ethos--until
death deals an end to our
earthly peregrinations. These
spoors--the lives, the lanes,
the passages we shall be
traveling--will tell us, and
others, about who we are,
and were, and if we were
befriended ever by others,
and by ourselves.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Had I but an endless eve,
if darkness were my friend
and sleep my enemy,
I might have stayed awake awhile
and found the answer true.

But summer sunsets silent fall;
I heard it not at all.
And my soft bed
like a siren called:
I could not think it through.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks