For A Woman Whose Friend is Dying of Cancer

The forces that spin and stir the mud of lives,
that mixing blend in caked and dried riverbeds to flood again,
lift houses from foundation’s grip and send all plans
careering past the county lines–

such strength in natural surprises, that growing fill up spaces,
and guided by voices, wherever speakers crackle instructions,

speed haste, free hands to take hold
and grasping, grunt prosperous from
furrowed garden folds.

What happens where the roots entwine?
And generations grassfed by the seasons passing
look up to flying clouds, whose tendrils creening
seek to shroud the daylight.

Futile stuff–all that bluster
huff huff blow the winds away.

Better to know the way the paintings lay the landscape
by heart by all other accounts
is lost to historians counting;

better to shower the day than wait
for clouds delay to do the lifting,

and as the faces come unstuck,
to and of the light on windows’ glinting,

reflected and new minted,
a new day,
growing insistent.

April 7, 2011

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