Fifty Days and a Little Fire

mm

photo: Ed Siderewicz

We all recognize the tone of the death knell.

Like the sun exiting the western sky,

there is no shortage of drama:

crimson streaks lick upward and outward.

Not able to avert our eyes,

we stand transfixed

waiting

for the looming darkness to overtake us. 

With slack jaws they circled your cruciform shade

until the earth’s edge eclipsed

the remnants of red hope.

And you were gone.

Every time

stillness settles like a bad dream of lockjaw;

we forget to turn around.

Neglecting the hints of resurrection

as the yellow and pink tendrils

silently overtake the sky.

It was no different with you.

Even after the stone rolled away,

it took 50 days and a little fire

for those you loved to appreciate

the new reality dawning within them.