To Our Tomorrows
I've been waiting for the right moment to publish this poem. The day after the observance post for 9/11 is perfect.
In 2000, the neice of one of my good friends was in a terrible automobile accident. Being the person he is, he dropped everything to be by her side and to help her till she recovered. I wrote this poem for him. The message of the poem, I feel, is comparable to 9/11 in that there are good souls in the world who save, those who nurture others back to full recovery, and those who uplift and refill the hope of those who do the saving and nurturing.
Maybe, this is just a poem about friendship.
Tomorrows
I am a day of words compiled into books--
rows upon rows of unharvested me
and of journeys up and back and to and from
high landscapes where I picture you.
Words are intangible things like clouds.
Compressed, they often come down in floods--
Sudden news is never kind.
I am thrown by their force
Blinded for moments until I recapture
the focus behind my reopened eyes.
You sit with a broken friend; you're benevolent
nearly drowning in thoughtful, pleasant words.
I paint you recovering time and again
because you are Caretaker--
Refuge for the worn and wanderer.
I shake the words out of my books
scatter them around looking for "soul."
How long has it been since I've spoken it?
I need to paste it in your book.
I'll say only the best of words.
They'll cover what needs healing
for this time being.
I'll do this over and again
because the winds of our tomorrows always blow
and even the kindest spoken words,
like fallen leaves,
fly into the wintery swirls of forgetfulness
and are forgotten.
Who, then, would refill your hope
if not me?
by Michael Parker
9:49:08 PM  | |
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