How Is It

How is it that the world is not on its knees

How is it that the day returns and is still day

How is it that the light comes the air feels soft and birds sing

How is it that dawn has forgotten already

How this was his time of day

That he spent his best hours with the sunrise, the quiet

That he was cheerful and bright, at his best

That he was the morning person

Not me

 

March 24, 2012

 

 

 

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About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
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5 Responses to How Is It

  1. Oh, Vicki, your words are so moving – your loss so deep – and love does surround you in your walk.

  2. Lulu says:

    Beautiful. Heartbreaking and beautiful. Is this your photo or something you found on the web? (Because I think I’ve seen every photo you have!)

    • It’s a picture that Mark took, a long time ago, maybe even before we got married. We were at the farm, and the landscape and light was so monotone – he had the idea of photographing his jeans jacket against it.

  3. Jenny says:

    Do you know this other amazing poem that Kevin Young wrote in the long aftermath of grief?

    Serenade

    I wake to the cracked plate
    of moon being thrown

    across the room—
    that’ll fix me

    for trying sleep.
    Lately even night

    has left me—
    now even the machine

    that makes the rain
    has stopped sending

    the sun away.
    It is late,

    or early, depending—

    who’s to say.
    Who’s to name

    these ragged stars, this
    light that waters

    down the milky dark
    before I down

    it myself.
    Sleep, I swear

    there’s no one else—
    raise me up

    in the near-night
    & set me like

    a tin toy to work,
    clanking in the bare

    broken bright.

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