With a few written words he will transport you
to a blue room you’ve never seen, in a cabin
on a lake with oak and maple.,
sunlight dappled through leaves,
the source of light, the sun, brilliant
combinations and permutations of light
within our simple complex universe.
The second stanza reflects beauty,
grace, gratitude, calmly informing us
he struggles with his breath,
and soon will breathe no more.
He observes this and writes it
clear eyed, accepting the inevitable.
He knows more about me than many;
I know things about him, private stuff.
When my fractured thigh was healing
he drove north, then south, for hours
and hours to get me home to Martha.
Bagels, coffee, games of strategy together,
long conversations, shared sense of irony.
Now he writes of where he is, where
he is going, eschewing fairy tales,
choosing what he knows deep within.
I won’t steal what he writes of love,
cannot steal his depth of vision.
Now is no time
to be maudlin.
When it’s his time,
likely before mine,
his essence will disperse
to where it came from.
~ Wry Welwood
October 2022
This poem is inspired by a poem of a friend of mine, Rand O’Brien, a poet and psychotherapist living in New Hampshire. His poem By the Lake is not available to the public yet. When it is, I will post where it may be found.
The subtitle, Ink Can be Thicker than Blood, is a play on “Blood is thicker than water.”
Communication, written and otherwise, can forge deep bonds which at times surpass those of family.
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