where is he now
the gardener of souls?
his “good morning” silent,
cardinals wonder why
sun, looking for a reason
summer holding on,
flowers broken without his songs
the gardener of souls
where is he now?
I never expected winter to carry in a friend,
one who said, “I want to know your mind,”
who listened when I spoke softly,
and heard the colors, too. I was cold,
and you showed me warm, built me
a safe place to release – my alone,
my how it feels to be chased by death,
my real. You said, “I get you.”
And you did. Did you get the pieces
you scattered behind when you left?
These tears belong to you.
I walked two miles with my eyes closed,
while autumn’s colors crunched beneath my steps.
Now and again I stumbled, but righted myself,
and continued on my way. The sparrows
listened to my miles and asked, “Why?” and when
I did not answer or open my eyes, again, “Why?”
The path knew my steps well and did not change.
November sheds a gracious scent, knowing
he’s an older gentleman, and I breathed in, and took
his hand, walked on until the circle’s end. And there
I opened up my eyes again. Daylight had fled,
leaving me there to greet the night, with gracious November,
When you doubt a friend, it’s like
putting a flame to the handrail
of a well-worn footbridge, smooth
and trusting, and waiting for fire to appear.
Soon the handrail is useless for holding
you steady; the flame of doubt spreads.
Travel the bridge only down the middle, as doubt
grows hotter and meaner, swallowing more bridge.
Behind you, your tiny flame has grown
to devour where you once walked safely.
Remembered footsteps are consumed by your doubt.
No turning back, the bridge crumbles to ash.
Quicken your steps to safety, off the footbridge,
thoughts of days of peaceful passing there.
But you put the flame to the bridge. Look back.
Ash and burned boards float past like old friends.