Heartwood February 24, 2014


An old friend died several years ago. At the time I wrote this poem. I don’t know why but I still can’t delete his phone number from my contact list. Oh, to do so would seem so final, but I also still feel in contact with him.



My friend has died and the grass is

growing as I watch the logs dry and

crack in the garage. Yesterday, I saw a

lone worm leave the heartwood as if

waiting till it was safe. I wonder what

lone secret left Steve’s heart after he

died before the medics arrived. Is it

hiding in his closet or in our grief?

Is this the relentless, resilient way,

that what survives moves from one

carrier to the next? There are buds

on the maple though it is October.

Even wet concrete seems beautiful.

If I knew the question, I’d ask it

of everyone.

A Question to Walk With: What is the one question you would want to ask of everyone? During the next week, ask this question of one trusted friend.



"that made me laugh. his own wound ruined his momentff.LAURENS.CLUB\v5963pw"

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