Fate

Is this to be a frogless,

scorched scrub state?

Meadows choked

with broom and thistle,

a thirsty fate

that waits for

the inevitable flame

to climb the ladder.

The bridge

I kind of thought I’d just ease

into the evening of my life.

No drama, no trauma

no surprises or trapezes.

Familiar places, familiar faces.

Sprawled out and dozing 

in the same spot on the couch.

You might say it was the epitome

of everything Is just fine.

If anyone asked,

I could nod my head

And say, yeah, it’s all okay.

And it was.

Life’s warm evening,

not a sunrise or a noon.

That all evaporated

like a summer pond.

All those assumptions

-gone.

And suddenly

I was surrounded

by all the memorial objects

of another person’s life.

The scarves and scars,

hotel soaps

and refrigerator magnets.

Shoes.

Where were mine?

Gathering dust

on the bookshelves

in the closet.

And my island home

was being gutted

day by day,

week by week.

I might have thought

that God forgot.

But it was me who had forgotten

that there was a warm hand

If I would just reach out

to take it. There always is

if our hearts are open.

To joy as well as sorrow.

There was a bridge

to leave that island

and I’ve crossed it.