The joy is not in the having, but the desiring.
The country I grew up in
has been cut off from me, and I from it
By pandemic and policy and cost and distance: a three-year malaise, a delayed exit.
Its serrated realities blurred in a haze.
It seems perfect, to my longing gaze.
My friends’ irritations seem mild to me
And their sources of discontent
Here, on the edge of my second sight:
They seem to inhabit
An island of white sand
And turquoise water,
Saturated with light.
And there they are,
As I am to them, too,
Just on the outer edges of what we know—
A stone’s throw.
Time did not stop, when his heart stopped, on Solstice Day.
Time went on, and not in a stop/start way.
Like a stream in the highlands, pure and cold.
Like age comes upon us, turning us old.
He left everything clear cut, and filed.
Wisdom is inherited, along with title deeds;
and faith is invested, and yields dividends.
We have time to consider each wish, and every need.
Enough time to sort out the myriad issues
of family who are friends.
The time since he left has gone like clockwork.
I know this journey never ends.