Beyond

(for David)


When it was time to change
the patch of sky above,
you put your best suit on
and travelled beyond the hill.
What you found there was not
up to par (or so it seemed):
barren-looking soil,
sickly scanty groves,
empty howls of wind.
You wondered why you came.

But you stayed, buffeted
by the gusts of unknown airs,
drenched by slanted rains,
turning earth to mud,
crushing you to the ground.
Then something happened.
The stains on your suit,
the dirt on your shoes,
the despair in your face
began to reflect

this exact spot of land,
its angles and shades,
its ups and its downs,
and revealed a fiercely
growing world of trees,
and birds, and human sounds.
And you in the midst of it all,
mindful and rooted,
looking back and ahead;
standing strong and tall.

Pushers

(for my brother)

To those who are left with the most
difficult job:

Scraping the flattened animal off the road,
Deciding where to dispose of its broken parts;

Opening the wardrobe of the newly dead,
Choosing the coffin clothes to take to the morgue;

Returning to the empty house when someone's gone for good,
Removing their trace (once-bitten apple, slippers, comb);

Pulling the curtains aside the morning after,
Willing the sun and the birds back into the sky.

Why it is your lot to take care of this,
I don't know,

But I suspect that for you it isn't really a job,
Or giving those others what they deserve.

What it is, though, is an acknowledgment,
A navigation, an accompaniment,

Of the departing, through the exit door.
A final and eternal push of love.