KEEPERS OF THE ASH
November Ashes
A poem
Misty mornings rewind to remind every November is as now, even when days are full of newly forgotten rows forming faraway fields planted with your memories sometimes stuck inside seeds afraid to bleed, afraid to grow, afraid to be.
Funny how you became silken lines of ashes, slipping through my fingers while your feet still found footing on earth-bound grounds in soils of gardens in lands you took to tow, your silhouette silencing my only shadow when you would stand tall lost in looks beyond me — I was a child then, no time for diving details.
Years bent us sideways into long lines of nothing to say before November nights blew warning winds turning our time crisp — seems I could swallow fall, after I saw no more butterflies blending skies, only ends in your faraway eyes pacing with burdened black bones stretched inside ice-cold skin, it all goes up in smoke as cancerous whims.
You wanted ashes, you wanted your name, you wanted me to keep you on her molded mantle like a dusty steeple, yet still no time to talk to digest deviations from years of planted pain swept over solid, no scratching surfaces, no scuffing the shine.
Is there a difference anymore between mourning mantles and hanging could have been on a never was? it feels all the same, so that’s when I sailed south to set your ashes to flow in firm winds, spreading your silence over the sea.
I still feel you lingering some days your ashes melt in misty mornings, but it’s too late for layered goodbyes I am no longer your sight, I am no longer your sound, I am no longer your keeper.
Thank you to Debra G. Harman, MEd. for this challenge: