Coda

Occasional Poems

Coda

The second best unpaid job in the world,
voices the feeling of words.
Love we don’t say,
but we write about canals and bridges,
the warmth of skin.
Time we don’t say,
but we write of brooks meeting,
patient trees,
astonished light.
Memory and grief we won’t mention,
but rather consider
the unsteady steps of our puppies first days,
or eyes that carry the future
like an empty bag.
We don’t write hope,
instead we talk of a daybreak
that says; here’s another chance,
and another,
and another.
We live in a world
where the meaning is not enough.
God we say,
in his careful absence we live.
Without children
I’d spend my life in metaphor.
What am I trying to say?