From Rilke’s Ninth Elegy –
But because truly being here is so much; because
everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in
some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all,.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
Just once. And never again…
Placed atop the bed sheet,
inert,
his lovely soulful hands,
mapped in deep indigo veins,
the long expressive fingers,
this,
this was where his humanness
would reside the longest.
Always be a poet. Even in prose.
— Charles Baudelaire.
In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]
Nothing Gold Can Stay: A Mother
and Father Remembered.
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A sequence of my poems has been published in a hardcover book entitled The Music of Leaving Poems by Tricia McCallum
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Thanks for sharing