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| http://fineartamerica.com/ "The Last Drop" by Russell Styles |
depending on perspective. Turmoil
and despair, fear and suffering, every sentence
ending with a question mark, a wail. No one knew
(though they'd been told) that Sunday was coming,
exploding with hope, new life,
joy, random thoughts embracing exclamation points.
Black Friday, hard to imagine jostling
crowds of shoppers working off yesterday's turkey
trekking round the mall, not in holiday music mood,
too tense for tinsel, heart hurting for my friend.
Family should call on Thanksgiving, join you
at the table, by the bonfire, not die.
Final stop. Period. The End. No more.
And yet.
Good Friday long ago still holds Sunday's hand.
Death's sting felt for weeks, years to come,
never gets the last word. Every good-bye
whispers unspoken promise of the next hello,
a better place, blahblahblah. Such words won't help today,
rug so recently pulled out from underfoot.
Too dark outside, inside, for
light to penetrate just yet.
There's comfort in that little word.
Heartbroken, yet ...
warmed at memory's sweet blaze.
Devastated, yet ...
reaching out to grab the hands
of those too numb to move away from the abyss.
Empty but aware (I'm sure of it) of reservoirs
yet to be tapped when every drop
has vanished into mist.
Underneath it all, a residing pocket of peace.
Underneath that, the love.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
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