I have tried so many times to respond… but however does one begin to write a poem for a poet?
When I search for comfort I find my breath, concealing you in song. There, our voices sing to the moon and the blossoming dawn, as they lay bare the fragrance of the earth. Aching, for your feet to step to my path, to penetrate the expertise that comes from loving over and over and over again, I wait, hoping you will remember the shared field, our lips amongst the harvest, bodies tied to earth searching for their truth…
I’m in tatters. My breath boughs, resigns and reaches for you, only to find the slopes of eternity silenced… slayed in this afternoon light.
It is obvious, without you my grief presents the cliff with an edge, where naught stands before me… I search for comfort and find only the needles of the pine, in hand, where the names of the dead bathe in the moonlight.
With each breath, I try to unlearn you, yet, how does one unlearn the concealed song flowing through their veins?