Flowers
for
Auntie Rosie
the
mathematics of loss
does
not compute. the hours
droned
out, in their unspeakable
grief,
could never add up.
We
walk through the valley with the shadows
by
night. And bless the little ones by day
this
is not a game to be explained
by
Jesus lightly. like some hand of bridge
written
off like a one in a million
chance,
of a brighter outcome. there is pain
to
consider, staring at us like the irrational remainder
in
what could otherwise have been a job well done
No.
the heart is the accountant of the soul
and
rightly calls him a villain that owes the world its sun.
the
dialogues of loss
do
not convey. the torrential glut
of
tears which chokes the sky in us this day.
the
words are rain. watering the ground.
I
hear that flowers bloom there in the springtime.
I hear children walk that way.
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