Patience

When I stare at the water that’s still

Beckoning for you to swirl those tender fingers

Where the minnows wait for the heron,

I see the absence of space, the thing that must be

For you to exist. The needles of balsam 

Float down the river that refuses to

Forget, every rustle a eulogy for the flesh

That once was, a soul. I try to tend to

The marigolds, the ones you cherished

With all your heart, but they lie rotting

In the sun. Why is it that the parched land

Won’t drink my tears? I sing hymns of

You, the summer air around me fragrant

With the memories of fervor. I set pen to

Paper, ink running black down the page,

The dictionary silent. I try to paint pictures

Of the past; the canvas is still 

Blank.