Our Lady of What’s Done

Grabbing at turquoise with desperation.
It’s beautiful, but that’s not why. It’s what
happens when the bluebird of happiness
stops singing. When words fidget and stall and
sigh with loneliness. When the mind reaches
out of habit for someone who’s not there.
When time carves itself around what didn’t
happen, what will never happen, what is
done and done. It’s going to be a long night,
followed by a long day. There have been so
many of those lately. It’ll be fine.
Some of us get to sing a finale.
Some of us tiptoe off in the middle
of the night and rest. Some of us aren’t quite
finished yet. It isn’t a question of
how many dreams are left. I wish it was.
Stack them up like chopped wood, like old books, like
paper for recycling, and let them burn.
For me, right now, all I smell is the smoke
and spring budding into blossoms, whispers
of possibilities. For someone else,
it’s bread and blood and birth, hungers fulfilled.
How can that be when we breathe the same air?
Oh, I almost forgot. We don’t. We don’t.

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2 responses to “Our Lady of What’s Done

  1. Interesting images. Trying to tie the to sleepless nights and problems not solved (I usually collapse without realizing when – i guess a sign of getting older – used to toss till morning and then go to work).

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