Awoke this morning -tears to cheek,

heart a-torn, unhappiness fresh from little sleep,

still to these words no fool could retreat,

a soft, southern whir my “gone -ons” did speak.


Aunt Emma was the first at-hand,

“baby, you’re well-positioned -continue to stand,”

My Grandad was next at the mic,

a gusty breeze he said “it’s no longer night.”

My cousin Jason gone at 32,

reminded me how fresh and temporary the dew.


And all around me did they whir,

til I could not hold back tears a second more,

but this time my tears were not the same,

they had lost their salt, a sweeter grain.

The message they had was that I was just right,

for the rigors of day and the half-eyed nights,

and to believe them surely -there existed no fight,

in which they hadn’t sent their spirits and their loving might.



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