Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Erosion

This was used for a FlexWriter's Challenge: Being There. I wrote this for someone dealing with a loved one who had chronic Hepatitis B.

Erosion
I loved him before he was sick,
when he was just a boy fighting to become a man
in a cruel world of petrifying hatred,
a stone tree that couldn’t bend . . .

I loved him even after his liver failed
the fight of a disease killing him slowly
day by day, night by night
without me at his side -

the paralyzed roots of his former self
feared spreading his contagion
through my arid body still thirsting for
fingers and lips that knew all my secret places -

the valleys and coves where soul survives
hidden from wanton explorers who’d tame
the wilderness in civilized concrete and possessive pavement,
never understanding that the fertile soil washed into deep deltas -

waits for splintered seeds to be sown
within sacred grounds that once nourished the virile oak
and now refuses to be plowed, belonging only to
a stone tree that couldn’t bend . . .

I loved him even after the drought,
when wilderness perished into desolate deserts
filled with old fossils scattered thousands of miles apart,
bare bones eroded by the windy world.