Accidental Obituary

I can't help but think of the young writer who died a few days ago.
He is survived by his wife and young son. He won't be able to
remember the day his father died. He'll grow to know him through
his writing, through his mother. His father will always be a ghost
roaming through his life, untethered from this world. Young Writer
was only a year older than me when he passed. After some time
passes he will always be younger than me. I found out about him
a few nights ago from a friend who works with his child. She was
heart broken, not just for the Young Writer and his wife, but for his
child, denied filial love, a familiarity that was his birthright. I held
her as she cried because there was nothing I could do to lessen
her pain. Language fails in every way at those moments.Words only
nick the surface of our inner lives, the emotions that sweep over us
like vast symphonies of the heart and mind, unable to be transposed
from one person to another. I feel weak and mute at those times.
What can any of us do but listen? A shared embrace means many
things. It can convey the joy of familiarity, the depth of sorrow
that escapes all light, the banal encounters that we take for granted.
Mary Ruefle said, "Here we are, each of us alive and on earth,
each of us the envy of every dead man, woman, and child..."
She is right. It does not matter how young or old we are, we are
the chosen few that bask in warm rays of sunlight, chill at the kiss
of Winter wind. There will come a time when we will be envious
of the living, or perhaps happy to be free of the decaying flesh
we called home. I do not know what comes next. There is none
among us who has absolute certainty about the world beyond this.
I wish Young Writer had not let himself collapse like a dying star,
denied his son the good person he was, denied his wife the mate
she was certain she would grow old and further in love with.
It is Christmas Day and I count my blessings every day. My life
is riddled with faults of my own making and of my time, but there
is a joy and fortune I cannot deny. I hope Young Writer has been
eased of his burden, though, I cannot help but wonder if he can see
the world as it has become.

brake brake brake

a sudden interruption.

screeching rubber,

the burning smell

of searing asphalt.

double-time rhythms
# # # # # # # # # # #
poundpoundpound

a throbbing reminder

of the continued state

of being.

Hummingbird Incident

A hummingbird accidentally
entangled itself into her
niece's hair, so she did
what any good aunt would do,
she reached over to niece
and hummingbird to untangle
them from one another;
as you can imagine, there
was a moment of anxiety
shared between all three,
as the aunt's hand began
to untangle the hair
and hummingbird from one
another, and yes it was a bit
of an unusual sight, though
one filled with a set of hands
delicately seeking to harm
neither hummingbird nor
niece- the young girl stayed
as still as she could, and soon
the hands of her aunt held
a hummingbird, its wings
were still, neither flitting
nor flying, merely sitting,
waiting for the right moment
to take flight once more.

Everyday Ballet

Motion and velocity create a dazzling display
as we peer through glass. Restraints fix us 
firmly to the seat. If the unfortunate and 
unforeseen were to occur, would the pain
be any less? A constellation of fractured
prisms would populate the asphalt, a perfect
mirror of the heavens. What celestial body
would you be? Jupiter or Saturn, Mercury
or Mars? Sirens screeching ever closer.