This is for the Children

Zella sleeps.

I watch over her:
stare at photographs
in my mind,
on the walls, into
portals unobtainable by touch
but perceptible to a certain sense

I am the traveler
of a million heartaches
tear stains, and outbursts
of laughter into the face of lightlessness.

This is for the children!

...who call out to me, each
and every one of your voices.

I cry.
She doesn’t
make a sound.

I listen to them,
feel their energies,
experience their spirits, interpret
their names in wind-blown petals of cherry blossoms.

. . . Alexis . . . Alexa . . . Zoe . . . Nova . . . .


Suddenly and slowly,

humanty's beautiful sadness escapes into the air.
Waves propelled by breath and emotion
flow over dry teeth and moist lips.

Silence evaporates.

And the voices speak:

Cry not traveler.
For we play all day
in the softness of green
grass, smiling in the sun so happily.

It's okay. We are
perfect now: Free.


You don’t have to
understand
what this is

just listen . . . .

And so I did.

This is for
the fathers, the mothers.

This is for . . . the children.