Late Spring by Rachael Jones

 

Coming into the high room again after

Years of dust collecting like crop dusters
Covering fields after a summer day.

After the moon has past two hundred times,

Watching the marks on the wall progress as I grow,
The hands on the clock, continually spinning around.

After I think about not saying goodbye 

I can still picture your face one of which
Whom had scruffy facial hair after shaving.

You, as I sat on your lap in your chair

Smiling down upon my face knowing you couldn't
Explain where you were going or where you would be.

You went far away, but just out of sight

Still remaining within our thoughts and hearts

To see you I must imagine and think hard.

Finally I saw you sitting in the vast room

Your back leaning against the pearly white gates

 

Nothing in sight but white light glistening
Like the sun shining down upon the water.
Waiting patiently because our clock still ticks.

You of whom I had heard with my own ears

“Don’t rush through your wild and precious life, for

Not all the gold in the land could replace it”

Picturing your face, imaging your voice

To bring you so close in memory, your touch

Tangible as if I could grasp your hand.

I have opened the door, believing lies.

Believing you were not that far away,

Believing you were on this earth once more

Knowing we will meet again sometime soon

______________________________________________

Late Spring - W.S. Merwin

Coming into the high room again after years

after oceans and shadows of hills and the sounds

after losses and feet on stairs

after looking and mistakes and forgetting

turning there thinking to find

no one except those I knew

finally I saw you

sitting in white

already waiting

you of whom I had heard

with my own ears since the beginning

for whom more than once

I have opened the door

believing you were not far