After it all.

After you’ve made your money.

After you’ve done what you do.

After you’ve hated those to hate.

After you’ve loved all you can love.

After you’ve seen death once, twice.

After a child or two has grown and gone.

After you’ve shamed and belittled.

After you’ve healed enough to stop.

After you win one last time after your loss.

After you find war.

After peace.

What will you do?

Perhaps be. In the breeze.

One moment when the weather is right.

One brief slice of time.

Perhaps you’ll finally find where you already are.

Good Friday

I hoped she would be brought from her coma. Extubated.
She wasn't.
I hoped she would rise from her bed. On Easter.
She didn’t.
Sunday would be poetic.
Sunday was banal.

Thousands of prayers by thousands of people.
Millions of words.
Still she died.
The mother of our children.
The partner in our life.

Of those that offer unanswered prayers, I think.
About those that live lives with laughter, I smile.
There is still good.
For empty, cold, sides of beds, I hold space.
With those that mourn, I mourn.