It flows till each
kernel is milked of its essence, then recedes to miserly trickling.
It hibernates as themes ossify, mummified in rumination's chrysalis.
Charges to the fore of consciousness and floats to the spout of the
fount when ripeness blooms. 8>)
ON PARTING
I had long anticipated this parting. I had wept in anticipation of
this. Intense pain coiled around refusal and vexation, caused by anger
that it should pass so soon. To heave our chests with sobs, wail
ourselves hoarse, sap breath of air are futile. Part we must.
I cannot offer tears now. I had wept in anticipation of this. Senses
stay with me as I go about matter-of-factly. But sorrow is real.
Whoever who has emotions and compassion will surely feel the tight knot
on heartstrings in times of grief. Part we must.
Mourning lasts not forever. Speak not of regret. Seek joys shared.
Extricate the most comely or comical picture of the departed from
recesses of recall or from the picture archive.
Caress those treasured tokens. Care for them well. Mortality had
usurped and carried them across the walls while those living, are
moored here still. 8>)
AFTER THE HURT
We wince, grimace, we deny, we blush, we withdraw, we stumble, grapple
for a hold then surge wildly with our hurt, to our sanctuary, for
security, for support, for sympathy which we so badly lack.
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