by Melissa Beasley, copyright 2014
What do we mean when we say time stands still?
What is it waiting for? The wreckage of what has been used up and discarded?
The places I am not welcomed?
Does it wait for young death or old laughter?
Does it mean it’s just enough to carry on,
Like our mothers after learning our fathers were only leaving anyway?
Does it wait for words without language,
Screams without sound?
Perhaps it waits to make virtue of detachment.
Loss and shame here
Are blessing and thanksgiving somewhere.
I used to remember more than I forgot but
Now I count the kinds of grief love teaches and light candles for each.
There is no shade but the shadow still crouching in the back of my mind.
Sun flickers through tall pines
Looking at the place where time slows and stops,
Stones on grave;
Hoping they will know we came.
Maybe time waits for the scattered bones of precious saints
Knowing only the dust that blows from the dryness of the parched earth.
Does it mean it’s just enough to carry on?
Categories: poem by Melissa Beasley
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