A random poem for a blue, stormy day...

A flourish of memory for the gracefully departed

Sitting on the couch in a house
That is home to me.
The night rushes in, scarecrow storms and cricket divas.

And the smell of death that’s mixed with soil. Earth.
The paints and lines all blend in the memory, but then,
There. I swear I felt more alive than
I ever felt before. Sebastion the dog, whining
On the couch, waiting for his friend to go to bed.
To open the door that means the way for sleep is clear.
To let the night in, finally. To rest.

Sitting on a chair in a house
That is now home to me.
The night swirls around, but does not enter. Her storm songs
Stay silent, the charioteers that lead the way have fallen dead.

Cold. The Earth feels wrong when the roots don’t reach far beneath.
The pathways confuse. Even the moment of fingers rushing over a keyboard,
The scent of worn down grooves, the pattern of days
Only remind of something lost. Left-over thoughts and memories.
I cannot feel the ones that have passed, the dog, the friends who wandered
Away. Rivers rush over fate and love, revealing only the cold, black stone
Of something’s heart. A planet speeds through space, reveling in chaos.
But living things only grasp ever-tighter
To hold onto the world that rushes, that falls, that rises. To keep the shutters closed.
To keep the night out.

Sitting and thinking only perpetuates breathing. Being.
This is not home to me, but I am tired.
And my hand falls from the knob, from the latch, allowing the galaxy a glance
Into the chests full of photographs and keepsake moments, into my memory,
into the missing piece of you.