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.