The Dwelling

 

Linking with Shay's wonderful Word Garden word list. This week the words are taken from a beautiful poetry collection written by the one and only Mary Oliver.  Come join us!

I dream of a house that no longer stands,

yet the creaking of wood floors still echoes in my poems.

The hours sleep hard and endless, you see it is August every day here.

Miles and the busyness of life are snow falling in summer and

your words are books burning before their time.

Grief has a generosity that swells like wet wood and feet can.

Timeless it lingers hidden in the quiet of remembering

 and still blinds us in the light ahead.

Yet, I hold its hand willingly,

for my heart is still holding on to you.

Her Voice is a Stranger Now

 

It is strange how we lose the memory of a voice. We can picture the smile, feel the grip of the hands, or see the stance, but the voice it slowly fades into the distance like a cowboy on his horse into the sunset. After 50 years, it is something I know has slipped completely away from me, like a lover that was destined to leave one day; her voice is a stranger now. I can only wonder if I heard it again, would my face light up or would I be unaware of the gift.

Linking with What's Going On? The prompt this week is "sounds".

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One Hurt Yet a Thousand Injuries,

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #7 (Langston Hughes)

Come join us!

Grief is historian of the heart. ~Terri Guillemets

 

When the heart remembers

It is never a gentle farewell

It is the burn of cities on fire

Blood of arguments words can’t un-tell

It is clocks that won’t stop ticking

And the landlord always at the door

It is the full moon of longing

Lighting an empty room that once held more

It is a million withered roses

That never filled a vase

And strangers all around

That remind us of a loved one’s face

For when the heart remembers

It is never a gentle goodbye

It is the bruise of a thousand stumbles

And wound’s salty sting from every cry.

 Photo by Rachel Claire from Pexels