Poetry. I don't know what else to do... I miss you seven years later my love. Your birthday is always a joyful time, even if I am welling with tears sometimes as I mark the day. Joy is the calling. It's supposed to be because death is conquered.  But let's just say, it doesn't feel that way to my heart. Hearts and minds don't always align. But I still know to go seek joy; if anything, I'm more convicted from your lifetime here - of how joyful we are not tended towards. How we miss it... I'm thinking of Our Town, and the end of the play (I think that's when the conversation happens). I don't want to miss it. I'll keep trying. Because love instructs well. And simply. And clearly. Unfailing.   

Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me

by Mary Oliver

Last night

the rain

spoke to me

slowly, saying,

what joy

to come falling

out of the brisk cloud,

to be happy again

in a new way

on the earth!

That’s what it said

as it dropped,

smelling of iron,

and vanished

like a dream of the ocean

into the branches

and the grass below.

Then it was over.

The sky cleared.

I was standing

under a tree.

The tree was a tree

with happy leaves,

and I was myself,

and there were stars in the sky

that were also themselves

at the moment

at which moment

my right hand

was holding my left hand

which was holding the tree

which was filled with stars

and the soft rain –

imagine! imagine!

the long and wondrous journeys

still to be ours.

----


Happy 7th Birthday, Gwenyth. I miss you in my arms. In our lives. I remember the joy of the day you were born. (One day we'll post the video. I know I will one day.)