Passing Through

And it came to me then that every plan

 is a tiny prayer to father time.

-- Benjamin Gibbard, “What Sarah Said”

Who leaves without pining to flutter back? Waking to warm sunrays through the windowpane,

We would write our plans on colorful stained glass, the promise of bright mornings, more days

For our wills seeking years to come. As these visits were reduced to waiting before you breathed

Out an entire story of the soul, a heavy stone must have formed inside my throat. Who chose the

Day, the time, the place? We sat clutching hands and embracing ourselves through one another

Inside spotless rooms with space so bare as to let minds fly leaving our stoic automatic bodies

When the eyes would turn white, when our glass plans would fracture and let harsh sunlight in,

Burning holes into our dreaming eyes. Until then, I have not for the life of me, grasped what has

Become of this containment after there are no pertinent words enough to pronounce the swift

Passing of sparrows snagged in flight; the incessant wreckage done by the exactness of flat lines.

For Mama Sol