Web Page Builder

The Sacred in the Quotidian

Fall, 2005

Gene Berson

Dream of the bashed calf 
the heart touched by tweezers, dream of the willow tree 
moaning and swaying my long hair in the storm 
back and forth, back and forth in grief 
laughing and cursing from tormenting helpless grief 

world storming with me comforting correspondence 
lightening splitting open the sky to show me 
the crack she entered through, O my love, my love 
I see the film of you enter the clouds 

you speak thunder and your eyes sparkle 
and rain comes, pelting my coat slowly, and I look at my sleeve  
in amazement, feel my head getting wet 
when I look back you're gone 

only shoulders of storm clouds, I can't even look the rain 
hits my face so hard, I give up the wish.  
The rain releases the pressures of holding it in, the rain 
sputters under tires 
full of grease as it mixes 
but it is dropping generously and clear, releasing all the pressure 
which had been building up for years 
since the day we learned you had cancer, before that 
during those times we didn't use our love to hide our fate.  

I know you could not give me back myself, that part of me 
which is in you. Love is eternal. We make deep connections 
and one by one 
the ends of these strings are planted in the ground.  
They are not strings. They are reins.  

I'm holding them to hold onto you.  

I'm going to let go and trust them, for I am in the world 

but I love the dead 
I need the dead. Those living around me 
are so often in the realm I do not understand, driving, 
driving as though they're going to keep driving forever.