I wrote this a short while ago, just before the Boston Marathon Bombing, not knowing exactly why or what it was for–it was what came through, what wrote itself.
There is no knocking,
this dark stranger of disbelief, of incivility
who, without warning, arrives
at your door, shouldering past, coming in.
Some wild force of nature, a hammer—
you never could have predicted (although there were signs),
And everything gives at once—porch chimes,
trash cans, the roof, your life,
what’s not nailed down.
A wild plethora of Dogwood petals in pink set free,
fly past, slam to the ground.
A grief presaged
unleashed, their splendor still intact
in the rubble of what’s left.
Grace and grief together, an annihilation,
yet to be understood.
Loss can come at you like this when
the telephone rings.
© 2013 ~ S. Wolfington