agreed?
that rivers cut through stone,
that Dorothy said
there's no place like home
....unless home is an empty bedroom
or the bottom of a vodka bottle.
look:
the Colorado carved
through the Bright Angel Shale
exposing forty seven species
of fossil trilobites and yet
the river's bed is still
far above the rocky
basement gates of hell.
the house where he expired:
reeked of poorly
seasoned firewood
burning feebly in the leaky
wood stove
and the cold despair
of rooms stripped bare
of all but a single chair here,
a table there.
a file cabinet
stuffed with expired invoices
and newspaper clippings
and snapshots seen once
before consignment to a drawer.
the only life left in this shell
was the ceaseless grating
squawking voice
of that young parrot
abandoned in his cage.
but believe me when I say:
that one long ago spring day,
I saw so many gold finches
drape a naked oak tree
that it looked like
budding April leaves
flickering in the breeze.
and their song was as sweet
as a chorus of angels floating
on a honey-scented
river in the sky
in feathered boats.
And I hope that he can
hear them now,
a cloud of finches
singing as they fly,
like a golden river
flowing through the sky.
lovely
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