For Saint Aretha


A POEM FOR SAINT ARETHA

Not anymore do we know

or feel anything other

than precious memories

born the day you died,

the flames of sound

which illuminate

what's in the dark

and dry its dankness.

Not anymore do we knock

on doors, tap on window panes.

The past that lives forever

is a comfort, an instruction

of respect for tenderness,

a balm for ears grown weary

of endless, unelected struggling.

Your giving the time of day for decades

to the air we take

as the gift you intended,

the gems of purpose

that ever sparkle

in golden caskets

of a soul, of a sound.



Jerry W. Ward, Jr.            November 2, 2018

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