Do Not Forget Me

Do Not Forget Me

(“Are not five sparrows bought for two copper coins? And yet not one of them is forgotten by God.” Luke 12:6)

April is the fulcrum which winter and spring
balance upon. The hummingbirds come,
one an hour, to taste their sugar water hanging
above the backyard deck.
The eagles are fewer, their prey hiding in the
thickening grass and foliage.
The skies take turns threatening and inviting;
you begin to dream of cloudless days after
just an hour of sunlight between rain showers.
It has left me in between shaded sorrow and
sunlit rapture. My soul seems like a captured bird
which the clouds could not hold.
My mind feels disconnected and can only think
of napping as a cure for lethargy.
My brain is weary of masking itself from the
critiques it has always paid attention to. But I
am caged
by my own disengagements. I am so far down
the road that
I am the old one in the room. I’ve roped myself
so tightly
that my wings have atrophied despite my desire to fly.
But I can remember, somewhere between the age
of accountability and mid-puberty,
a boy who stumbled between whirlwind dancing
and curious crushes. Do not forget me,
boy of the past,
and name for me again the secret things
you’ve kept silent for too long. Do not forget me,
uncreated one, on these secondary days.

The Temporary Cure

The Temporary Cure

The pain has changed me, I complain.
Thinking the tears which come unbidden
have finally reached their end, they swell again
from hidden cisterns. The pain has let loose the reins
that held so much fear in check. But now the angry beast
burns beneath my brow, explodes through my dreams and
schemes to make no good thing worthwhile.

Embraces do not change it, words do not erase it,
heat and ice, the temporary cure, awakes my thinking until
room temperature steals every good thought away.

I scream alone, I reach the dead-end abandoned.
Once a cul-de-sac, and now rusted trashcans blow through
the idle plot where friends grilled out back. Picnics were
life and health;

The pain has changed all that.

Hiking the woods, camping and smelling like smoke,
charring marshmallows and reading a good book, fighting
the moths for light. Exploration and warm sun were
brisk and joy;

The pain has changed all that.

My friends see the creases, my teeth gnash, my jaw grits,
my eyes burn, my ears echo every background noise like
nuisances intruding quiet meditation;

The pain has caused all that.

Friends love, but few call; what can they say?
God loves, but still hides; where has He flown?
The pain reprimands the kindest phrases, excuses
and amazes the man a decade ago who woke at
midnight to sit with a friend,
talked all night to calm a storm,
walked all day, conversation to coffee and back,
and had time to play before the sun retracted its rays.

The pain has changed all that.
The pain has changed me and I don’t know
how
to get me back.