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Tenacity of Lace

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Musings #64

          IT WAS MY IDEA  

 

Though well-meaning, your words

probe at just-closed wounds.

Or at least this is how I take them.

 

A contemplation, you explain.

Try your own navel, I retort.

 

Habits, like a nun’s garb,

we cannot seem to shed.

 

So we caw like crows,

hunched and black-feathered,

perched on a tense wire.

 

I venture, Perhaps we should let this go.

 

After all, long friendships like ours

can fade like blue jeans, and people

outgrow each other like houseplants

their decorative pots.

 

Since, I am reminded of you often –

 

the Juno capsule, well-named,

on its way to the red-eyed planet –

all the launches we once cheered.

 

An island comes unhinged

from the European continent,

as if geologic plates had shifted.

You and your rocks.

 

And from the spread of wildfire,

birds can’t fly with singed wings.

 

So, I hold out a branch

you do not take. Not, I think,

in hurt or rancor, but that

my words rang too true –

 

like that bronze bell on our retreats,

chiming us home.

 

I have to smile, really.

 

You learned how to do this –

running from your house aflame

and toppling as if made of sticks,

not stones. I was not wrong

 

to name this, call for a break.

Necessary as resetting a bone

healed awry.  And so

 

I thought this could be

temporary, and forgot that

 

– right or wrong,

my idea or yours,

for awhile or forever –

 

I still have to grieve.

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