Walking Backwards

Suddenly, sometimes when an April wind

with sweet scent of honeysuckle shoves hair

across my face, or an early sun streaks

sailor red warnings, am I then startled

to find an extra plate on our table.

Turn around!  Stop walking backwards, blindly

stumbling over yesteryears criss-cross roots.

Company thread tangled with sighing tugs.

We unraveled edges to complete shirts

soon found too short.  Joane and I bowed over

for harsh whippings, a public punishment.

Twilight born, life breath shallow, life too brief--

I held; then tightly wrapped our furled too soon.

Joane poured water, spoke him John in the name

of the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost.

We deep buried him under angry skies.

Grief comes unannounced in pale persimmon

buds, in the oval shaped raindrops that cling

to tips of willow leaves--achingly small,

incredibly lovely.  Lacking reason

I hold sorrow until I hear laughter.

Virginia, Alice, and Katherine roll

rough clay balls in afternoon pools of light.

Extra plate back on shelf, I imprison

three cygnets beneath wings for riddle songs

with promises of release in good time.

Loss once again cradles in familiar

hollows.  It hides and waits in solitude.

(c)Patricia Flower Vermillion   2008

from Lady's Maid                                  

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA