The first day will be carelessness,
reckless panic, and confusion, that
Will change to fear the next day.
The third is when you will really see
what surrounds you.
After that will come acceptance,
slowly, on the fourth day.
Anxiety will walk with you
as you try to find a way out
on day five.
On the sixth day, you must
abandon that compass inside you,
and make your own path,
till you find yourself –
Languidly basking and
completely at ease
on the shores of day seven.
Could go either way.
It could make you grin
Or have you grimace.
It may make you want to
Never take your eyes off these words,
Or off me;
Or make you want to unsee,
Unread, and unknow things.
Might have you laughing
unexpectedly, all tears of mirth,
Or make you wonder
When and how the mood changed,
Completely.
Either way, it would change things
From the way they are, maybe even
The way they are meant to be.
And you may sometimes think
Change could be favourable, even
Promising, all good things; though really
There is no way to know for sure.
Thunks of toys on the floor;
Sound of her walking on tip-toe;
Conversations with bears and dolls over
Castles with lots of rooms and gardens,
And bedtimes and baths and cherry buns;
Singing, lots of singing,
To herself, to me, to the universe,
Then a bit more for me,
Claps of glee and stomps of anger, a tantrum,
A smile slipping through a frown,
Followed by giggles;
Some dancing to my tunes,
Some to her own;
And a lot more singing,
All of it from the heart.
Let me drink your tears,
Your bitter, angry tears,
As they flow down your neck,
Before they pool in that little space
At the base of your throat.
Let me drink the tears
Of fear and frustration,
That fall on your shoulders
And seem to weigh you down.
I’ll drink those too
That stop at your lips,
So you don’t also taste
The sorrow and regret
You feel in your soul.
I will not stop you.
I will not say those words
Of reassurance, made meaningless
By the depth of your loss.
You need to cry.
But I will drink your tears,
Take them away,
And make some of what you feel, mine.
I am but a mere scribe
Without ink or paper,
Listening, watching
Your many stories unfold.
I am burdened with your memories;
Your words have become mine,
My tears have mingled with yours.
I write your stories with liquid time
With my gnarled ageless fingers;
For I am a witness to your life,
Aware of every ebb and flow.
I stare down into your depths,
My life force cascading into you,
Forming a mesmerizing image
Of me within you.
Always, Rethinking 