a mystery

A poem can be put off for only so long
before it begins to thin at the edges,
fade and seem to be about to float away,
until I wonder if there are any words left.

Waiting for certainty, holding out
for a long quiet afternoon
or at least the mind to begin,
to wade into those waters,
camp my being in the place
where my heart is willing

to speak to me in more than shy glances.
I am patient, aware of the immensity of
these last few months. Beautiful and lonely,

but not like waiting for a friend,
or hoping for a knock at the front door.
No, lonely like knowing it is no use
to long for what cannot be again.

It is a gentler thing, a weightier matter,
not likely to fade until years have passed.
No genies, no three wishes, and besides,
I would not ask for my mom to come back.

That she is not on earth is a mystery
I am unable to remember for very long
and yet I never forget. I just go on
day by day and at no particular time,
often unexpectedly, my heart spills
out of my eyes. At no particular time

and unexpectedly she’ll answer
a question I have asked myself,
assure me I’m on the right road,
and remind me that I am not actually alone.

A poem can be put off for only so long
before it begins to breathe on its own,
and then there is nothing to do
but write through the tears.