Enough Light: On Grief, En Verve [poem]

HOW BIG IS IT?

It is the size of
long loves lost
lovers' fading faces
fleeting ecstasy of dust

It is the size of

a daily smile

the endless thrill

of oscillating refuge and release

WHAT COLOUR IS IT?

It is the colour of
the bare-remembered hours
holding and cooking and playing
with those beautiful children
forever gone

It is the colour of

the helping hand

extended to a stranger

in their sudden time

of peril

HOW MUCH DOES IT WEIGH?

It weighs the same as
the misty smile
of each fallen friend

It weighs the same as

the lifted heart

that sees the dawn

HOW DEEP IS IT?

It reaches as far down as
those once-upon home-bound moments
knowing that boy-child smiles
will burst and hurtle
up and down the stairs

It reaches as far down as

the mind that wraps

around you

when you are truly lost

in a fictional world

WHAT DOES IT TASTE LIKE?

It tastes like
the repetition and assurance
of each summer following 
summer
each ritual journey
each comforting pattern
each family game

It tastes like

the rippling joy

of new invention

each time the opportunity

presents

itself

again

HOW FAST IS IT?

It is as swift as
the cancer that
recurs
again

It is as swift as

the poem that

never

ends

IS IT FIERCE?

It is as gentle as
my father's parting hug
his loving life
his final ask:
Did I do ok?

It is as gentle as

the paintbrush wand

that Monet used

to tell the world:

Look! Joy!

IS IT STEALTHY?

It is as stealthy as
the life that left
the little boy
safe and happy in the womb
unable - or unwilling - 
to join us in the
airborne world

It is as stealthy as

the languid words and

songs and games

that sons and father

turn, from time to time,

to joyous moment-filling

play

HOW SUBTLE IS IT?

It is as subtle as 
the mysterious fug of
Christmas
a family building its myth
and leaving it
in the past

It is as subtle as

the mysterious air

of a long walk

filling limbs and lungs

and circling us back

to the beginning

HOW REAL IS IT?

It is as real as
the dreams you once had
of one future or
another
somehow now
impossibly impossible

It is as real as

the infinitesimal mark

the only thing

of which to be sure:

to be a good

grain of sand

[If there's a photo down here it was added August 2017 as part of blog refresh.  Photo is either mine or is linked to where I found it. Make of either what you will.]