What time is this, father? Spring-bright, summer-full, the world must still be young.
It is old, my child--old with distance and guilt, with death and smothered songs.
Old man, your hands bleed.
The thorns tear them, child, as I clear away these weeds.
It seems a forlorn space. What place is this, father?
The place the earth drank my son's blood from the hand of his brother.
Now tell me, daughter, of people in your day.
We're much the same. People kill in lots of ways.
Why do you look at me like that, father?
You're a bit like another.
Who?
One Who walked beside me when the world was new.
heartbreakingly lovely
ReplyDeleteThe sister made the above comment, not me! E--I TOLD you not to do anything while I was logged in ;)
ReplyDeleteMy bad--oops
ReplyDeleteThis made me think. A lot. And I kind of don't understand it at all. But I think it is very beautiful. Perhaps I shall return again and again. And eventually my mind will grasp it.
ReplyDeleteGlad you liked it, MaryBeth. I wasn't quite satisfied with it, and tried again to express what was on my mind in my next post after this one. Still, poetry can be more powerful than prose; I think it has something to do with leaving so much unsaid but attached to what has been said. Sometimes people "get" something out of a poem which the author didn't even mean to put in--and that's cool too!
ReplyDelete