Sheila Murphy

Loss

Soft hour of evening

gray proffers

a pale line where a path would be.

Traced causeway light

amid botanic field,

appearing

to reverse potential for catastrophe

due to apostrophes, young strophe

imperative as chalk.

The long shot that perspires a natural

reprise as if

to sweeten what we breathe.

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Found

Once I found a way to look, I asked him

about humor I consider God.

And he told me it is not like that.

He spoke light in the mother tongue.

Admitted he was busy doing conferences,

was crowded into obligations.

Assured me it was not unpleasant there.

And asked that I watch over

the two boys.

I sought a spritz of guidance, and he told me

I have everything I need.

I could do anything.

Having lived for years along the path he gave.

Having known depth perception minus harshness.

Having been freed of him awhile.

For in the war he was the war

Receiving those configured messages.

Translating them to pour along clear paths.

Ears once brushed with love,

he was a child profoundly

living innocence.

And I still follow his pure polished compass,

ride the earthly vehicle he gave, 

that I might speak back to him beyond the echo tones.

© Sheila E. Murphy 

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