I Wept

How many times have I held your hand? Hugged you? Kissed you?

But the first time I ever held you in my arms it almost dropped me to my knees.

Instead of caressing your soft white whiskers, I was running my hands over polished oak.

Instead of rubbing your broad shoulders, there were only square corners.

And I wept.

Connections

Water drips
from darkened clouds
looking for rivers
to return home.
While

Saltwater seeps
through a lifeline
seeking a vein
to call home.
While

Silent tears spill
from my heart
searching for hope
you'll come home.
While all the while

You lay connected
to leads and monitors,
catheters and feeding tubes.
Your blank eyes turn
to me when I speak,
flat eyes close in weariness.
Your voice gone silent.
But one hand still reaches out,
to fidget with your gown,
the sheets, grasp my hand,
and not let go.
It is your connection,
your voice, your heart.
And so I stand for hours
holding your hand
letting your heart
speak to mine
in your world of silence
where the water drips.

Shelter

White canvas tents
sheltered black soldiers
fighting to free
their southern brethren

while white soldiers
fought to preserve
their factories, their
way of life.
States versus Union.

He bought canvas
cornering the market
indifferent to sides
selling to both and
making a fortune
because armies needed
tents for shelter
while waging war.

With this fortune
he created an unbreakable
trust fund.
A financial shelter
for extended family.
A brother became a doctor,
nephew became an artist
others attended college.

War divides countries
brother against brother.
Fortunes divide families
father against son.
Decades and generations
we carry on
battles long over.

Where are the shelters
for the brethren
we know today?
For the black man
stopped by police
shot in his car? 
An officer so afraid
he shoots?
For the riots
in our streets?
Where is trust?

How can we
build it, and make it
unbreakable?

Many truths
have misunderstandings
and all truths
meet on middle ground.

We have given
decades and generations
to these battles.

Surely we can
find the time
to create shelter
for middle ground.
To the place
where the paths
of truth meet.

Little by Little

He first noticed
signing his name.
Bold fluid strokes,
still bold but
no longer fluid.
They quivered.  Then
his glass began
to rattle against
his teeth as
he drank, but
only he noticed.
It wasn't until
his fork shook
and food spilled
that he began
tucking his napkin
at his collar.
He used to 
shake a leg
to get things
done.  He was
not used to 
shaky hands that 
slowed him down.

He fell asleep
beside his beloved.
Hours later, asleep
one moment, and
rolling out of
bed the next.
Knowing in that
split second he
was going to
hit the floor
and thinking, "This
is not how
one is supposed
to fall. One
is supposed to
fall in love."

He entertained with
stories that began,
"I've often said."
Which, over time,
became simpler: "Have
I told you?"
Over time those
dropped away to
stories and snippets
repeated and repeated
often daily, filling
the void left
open by things
he couldn't remember.
First just words,
then entire memories
often mismatched or
missing, gone, or

Enjoy This Life

I do not curse the rain because it hides the colors,
ruins my plans, dampens my spirits.
I thank the rain when it cleans the air,
washes away my mistakes, and helps renew me.

I do not curse the night because it makes me afraid,
changes my focus, colors my perspective.
Instead I look up at the stars in wonder,
reflect in the moonlight, and enjoy the silence.

I do not curse the work because it makes me tired,

silences my ambitions, frustrates my plans.

Rather, I am thankful I have work to feed me,

challenge my growth, and focus on others.

I do not curse those who frustrate or oppose me,

who slow me down, who do not understand.

I listen and try to see who they truly are,

their good qualities, in spite of my concerns.

I try to listen more than speak,

Understand more than judge,

Celebrate more than complain,

Enjoy this life I have been given.