Find Me

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Promise me

that in your next life,

you’ll find me.

 

When you’re safe,

when you’ve healed,

when you’ve stopped hurting me

and yourself.

And it matters

right now

what we do,

because even if we get

another life,

I may come back as

starlight

seven light years from Earth.

And you may wonder why

this one star,

of all the billions of stars,

holds relics of

something familiar,

something almost painful

that makes you grasp

how far away

seven light years really are.

 

And if the starlight

finds you

in your next life,

remember when we took for granted

the time we shared,

and how many times

we crossed paths,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

That, of all the possibilities,

of all the people or things

we could have been,

of all the eras

we could have lived in,

of all the particles or forms

we could have taken,

we had this life

on this Earth,

and, still,

we disregarded the fate

and the destiny of it all,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

 

(This poems appears in my soon-to-be published book, “Piecing Shards:  Poems on Loss and Redemption,” out in June.)

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Parallax

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(Photograph by Donata Wenders, The Prayer)

What concerned me most
was the fervor
of pirouettes.

“Aren’t the crocuses lovely
this time of year?”
There was a rift
in your tone.

All I remember is
being pulled away
from you,
from the shore
as we listened
to blackbirds.

A new strain,
another feigned bridge.
Still,
I am feeling less
vaulted lately.

Long ago,
I stopped underestimating
the power of environment
upon the
fragile human psyche.

A nocturnal bloom
more than you
could ever know.

Andromeda petals reflect
a light year’s longing.

In these
darkest of hours,
it is less about poetry
than it is
the poem.

(Parts of this were inspired by prompts from Poets United, Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, and The Sunday Whirl.)