Dogform
Prose Poem
How to capture the change and do it justice?
The season gives an indication of what is coming. Light growing dark, trees naked, brittle, but here there is no promise of a rebirth — — unless, it is in my head.
Is grief just guilt wrapped in tears? A heavy burden of, “should haves”?
A sign of what is coming when the bark, stops and the bee stings your heart and your favourite things are lost.
It leads somewhere though, this feeling of grief and guilt and gormlessness. It leads us to what is coming. A metamorphoses that must take shape for no other purpose than this. Nothing can stand still.
How long discomfort seems, how endless? How naive to think that this too, will not pass. We all know what’s coming. Yet we do not change. Perhaps we choose death over action, everyday in small ways, because we know what’s coming.
The weather was kind and the soil, soft when we prepared her grave. She sang the song of psithuros, the whispers rattled, sounding the alarm… I knew what was coming.
I knew what was coming when it came. I knew it was coming, when it came. When it came…
© Lennie Varvarides, Oct 2021
A response to J.D. Harms Saturday Prose Prompt Poem
