For Ben

What do you do in the twilight, when there won’t be any sun?
When every bird is darkness, and the birds, to their dark mother, run?
When every song is darkness, and all that was dear, and holy, and still,
Remains dark forever, covering all you perceived, when you gazed, at valleys, with hope, on the hill?
When every silence is eternal, adding silence to the silent flaw
Which demands more silence, because they fall down there, with each silence, each silence, the law?
You hear the crumbs and pebbles fall to ever lower levels in the dark
Until you cannot hear them. The pages are gone.  The book is gone.  And the lark.
When the earth is your parade—but she is the one
To make the shadows come up from further shadows,
Interspersed with light—remember a day’s summer in the park?
And she loved you? And brought her hand
Into your hand…?

You are dying. I understand.
I’ve been to that darkness, too.
The same shadow that covered me covers you.



  1. J said,

    July 1, 2016 at 3:35 am

    You know, if we page back through our journals and letters and poems—we might find out that friendship is a deeper source of inspiration than romance after all.
    Little windowsill pots of herbs, and tearful cups of tea. And then—the double reflections of dreams that make better poems come, sooner than you’d ever think.
    This is good, heartfelt work, for which I thank you.

    • J said,

      July 1, 2016 at 3:37 am

      P.S.: Didn’t mean to sound personal! I haven’t met the author, just the spirit.

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