poem

 Backyard HillThe mystics speak of love obliquelyAs one does the recently deceased. Gather you aroundA black fire Flames licking at their caftansLike the tongues of bad luck cats Come closer, they whisperEyes like hungry embersSkeleton fingers to their pale lipsHush hush  But you ’re having fun playing basketballAlone on the driveway after schoolPounding the pavement With a worn down ball Smoothed to membranous thinnessThe game clock has ticked down to fiveAnd the next shot is all that matters You aren ’t ready to sacrificeYour real imaginaries  On an altar of abstract mysteries Not ready to dwell on the fate Of the frost at sunriseUnprepared for the voidThat ’s both the heart of the prayerAnd its long awaited answer For you love is everything You ever had to forfeitLocked away with all the taken:Love is what ’s missing So you spend your life shootingAt hoops without nets Because when you know the shot ’s moneyThe instant it leaves your fingertipsYou don ’t need to hear a swishMeanwhile, mom just got home from workThe hot engine of her used Honda clicking In the garage where she ’d parked it While you were busy fetching your ballFrom the bottom of the backyard hillWhich means now the game is over And it ’s time to put the ball awaySo mom can take her after-work napBefore she heats up the casserole dinner She ’d made on Sunday night Tomorrow, the game...

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - December 21, 2023 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs