Give artists credit.
How easy it is to write about you
You placed the words inside me
I just construct the poems
And justlike that there is a garden of words ready to honor you.
No one tells you how grief works. It doesn’t end with the funeral. It comes back in seasons and sits comfortably in your lap, palms and heart. You know this sadness it taste the same every year. Some days, you think of her and smile. Other days, you weep your tears dry. You pull the weeds and they grow again. It never end. Grief is the ex-lover that calls every now and then.
The tragedy spoke and said
“I wanted to make a life with an idea”
He bends my wrists back with his words.
I am worthy. I am worthy. I am worthy.
Yet, somehow those words remain unheard.
Just the thought of spending the rest of my life with him, that is the revolution I’ve been searching for. A love that lifts me so high I don’t fly, I soar.
My father is gentle,
I can see the softness that raised him. His love as easy as the sun kissing us goodbye every night. His hands, carved ready to receive life. His roots, my grandmothers belly. He never forgets the hips that welcomed him into this world. We all begin in a women and he so graciously raised more than one.