Tag Archives: holding onto memories

Brighter Than Angels

The summer was golden and honeyed and brighter than angels.
We walked hand in hand in ancient woods and wide open meadows.
We played and crystal clear waters that took our breath away
as we dove under. The sun shimmered and crowned the mermaids.
We made love in our little cabin as the day ended, falling asleep embracing.

And summer is a ribbon that cuts your heart with a sweet and stinging venom
as we wait out the dim days and moonless nights, wiping away the tears of the stars
as we remember the sweetness we had before and that me must wait to return.
We laugh and dream and talk about the first time the sun will touch our child
when it comes to us in the first of spring, a year after we exchanged rings.

Holding on to the light as the darkness seems eternal and unpassing.
I must remember the stars crown my wife’s head as we keep out the red dragon
that comes in the cold and in the dark and the siren song of despair.
She is warm as we share our simple meal, and find strength in memory and hope.
The sun will come again, having escaped the serpent that tried to swallow it.

The sun will come again.


The Song He Always Sang

It’s starting to get cool at night, the first of September.

               The stars look so magnificent now all cities are dark.

               Such lights and clouds and clusters of white in the black.

               The ashes of the fire rise on the flames to touch the sky.


               She lays in her sleeping bag, Army Surplus, once her dad’s.

               The flames are hot on her face, and soothing, and so kind.

               She does not want to go into the tent yet, wants to be here.

               Watching the flames, feeling the heat, as winter comes down.


               She tries to call that song he always sang for her as a little girl.

               Tries to call the sound of his voice, the scratch of beard on her cheek.

               The nauseating smell of his aftershave. The color of his eyes, exactly.

               The feel of his arms hugging her. The roughness of his hands.


               All shadows, half formed, flickers in the darkness of her memory.

               All the pictures burned when the city fell. Memory is fickle and fades.

               She can’t put together the summer afternoon that was perfect,

               When it was just her and her dad, picnicking on the open plains.


               She sighs, and gives up trying. She gets out of the sleeping bag

               And goes inside the tent, gets back in, and through the open

               Mesh of the tent roof, she looks at the stars, countless, infinite,

               Until she levitates into the sky, and is one with every miracle.