Witnessed beneath the passing of storms
is an intermingling of forms
in a collective mourning.
It is like a mist that would slowly lift,
forming arms to embrace these transitory gifts.
Fear not for loss of visibility,
the mountain that is closed in by cloud
will be clear again before long.
As clear as the sound of the river,
as real as a chill’s shiver at higher elevation,
where the shrouded ridges of last light
backdrop the blank expectations
etched in the countryside.
In this expanse we trespass,
red eyed and sleepless.
Moonlight moves its restless
and illuminated stream
along the ground like silvery fingers,
gesticulating palm shadows
prowling like iguanas through the brush,
all is darkened and mysterious
when witnessed in the torch light upon leaves,
from our circles of heat,
dancing until morning to retreat
We keep the loss a continent away
and though never far from us,
some will stray,
while the hours drift
into thinking of them less,
drinking from pools that appear bottomless,
the moon would still hover
to illuminate the cracks
of the future’s chewed through mask.
How it seeks to cover with forgetful revelry
all that distinguishes one night from another,
another night without a husband, a son or a brother.
From beyond the wind joins us
in dancing through the fallen leaves
and through trees made to bend over
lost loved ones as if to weep
and we leave our own notes
soaked with rain,
words of empathy,
for no mother
should feel the kind of pain
that comes from losing a son.
When he was gone,
the moon held everyone,
bound by the light
that sees the sea to its end,
to horizons perched
and appearing to teeter
over the horror
that we sometimes sail too close to
and this very wind that we hold fast to
pushes us through
a perilously slow process
of gathering our breath,
until strong enough to reverse the tide,
to release those who died,
blowing that cold wind
back into darkness again.