Dear B,

This is sort of a response to your last post, but not my final one. It seems apropos to discussions we’re having about taking up space.

Auntie E

 

A Poem for Anne McCracken on a Gray Day

Always you ask, “Are you writing poems?”

holding a small light for me flickering in the dark

in case I’ve lost my way. And maybe I have.

 

I write something at least, after years of famine. Words

spill onto pages—crime, weather, profiles

of interesting neighbors, the county news.

 

It’s practice.

No, I say, in a small voice

surprised by my heart beating “why?”

 

What matters? The farm needs tending,

fruit falls to the ground—a waste.

Dailiness takes over like vines.

 

Is there something to say

that can heal the world—patiently,

one minuscule life at a time?

 

Leaves fall, the winds blow, and soon

the dark will succumb to spring.

Again and again the world spins in its lopsided circle.

 

Again the birth, the death, the ever-present soil

of delivery—that soil of choice and chance

and matter and things unsaid, unseen.

 

I spin my story—my hours, my years,

my place on earth. Does it matter

what I hide and fail to speak?

 

Words matter, I know, like water,

like rain. We thirst for them—the kind ones,

wise ones, the ones that are left unspoken.

 

The lovely ones, the loving ones, even

the harsh ones that tell a truth

and break us open.

 

Words touch, words see. Words

can kill. Words call, words heal, words

shine a light—like yours, your blessing

 

rain in a still crevice, bringing to bear

these words into the light

of your knowing recognition.

–EW copyright 2011

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