Floating Free

By Marie-Louise Meyers

Her third book of poetry, Floating Free, comprises a lifetime of thoughts and impressions. How wonderful to be the conduit, the testament, the recall of it all!

The biggest hurdle in writing poetry is recognizing the nuances, the signs, and symptoms when the mind takes a leap from what it sees or hears to what it can fashion from the depths or reflection and the heights of imagination charging her with a mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781546264798

Marie-Louise Meyers

Marie-Louise Meyers, a graduate of Rutgers University, teacher of many years with a Masters in Counseling, a published poet with three books to her name where a word carries a great deal of weight and meaning, has turned her talents to writing children’s fiction. The story revolves around Bridget, who resents visiting a nursing home where Great Gramps resides, whose appearance, actions and reactions are loosely based on the author’s own father. Great Gramps doesn’t remember my name, and he falls asleep when I’m talking to him. But when Great Gramps discovers his prize possession, a Silver Star awarded for Bravery in Battle missing, Bridget develops sleuthing skills with the assistance of Great Gramps, who no longer falls asleep because there is a reason to stay awake, and the Senior residents fly into action; some like the retired Policeman, who suddenly remembers his duty to the public to apprehend the criminal. Couple that with a Parrot, who responds, “it’s right under your nose,” makes for an intriguing mystery for the young and the older. A must read for families, who think their loved ones in Nursing Homes are only interested in a comfortable existence without the stimulation necessary to feel Alive and Useful again.

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© 2019 Marie-Louise Meyers. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/12/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6480-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6479-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Introduction To Floating Free

Chapter 1     Speaking in Other Tongues

The Legacy of Words

Marriage Vows

The Golden Pear

Pumping Pedals for Our Life-Line

The Take Down

Mother’s Airtight Alibi

Speaking in Other Tongues

When I Am an Old Man

Still Fooling the Public

The Foundling

Before You Came

Body Recall

It Keeps My Brain Warm

The Cover-Up

Your Chair Is Empty

Am I in the Wrong House?

Is Everything Okay?

Life-Giving Texture

Lost in Space on Labor Day

The Addict

Owning Bob

Star in the East With Promises to Keep

Chapter 2     Tell Me a Story

BUFFALO BILL IS DEAD

A Nor’easter at the Boy Scout Encampment

The Visitant

Blue-Bottled Certitude

The Queen of the Attic

(A Fairy Tale)

The Saturday Night Special

The White Out

The Puppeteer’s Daughter

The Contractor

A Tale of Two Churches

The Amish Way

The Bank Barn

Ask Marco, Marco Knows!

The Gift Outright

Poetry in Wood (based on Dan Miller’s Woodcuts)

Oxford Art Alliance Garden Party 2010

Transparent (A Teen’s Awakening)

Oma’s Down Comforter

My Mother’s World

The Pink Oriental

No Givers Without Takers

The Presence on Mt. Washington

The Duggers

Life Changes

Offspring of the Sky

Ye Olde Derry Dump (NH)

Unchartered Wilderness

Death’s Interface

Pre-Figured Skates

The Tree By the Side of the Road

Chapter 3     War and Peace

Perfect in His Words

Devil’s Den Revisited (A Gettysburg Haunting)

Transplanted

Just Another Day*

Just a Boy Doing a Man’s Duty

A Military Funeral

The Lead Soldiers

Panda Propaganda

The Leftover Bomb

Cathedral of The Pines N. H (Nature’s Sepulcher)

How to Circumvent a Plot

The Puppy Bias

Dad’s Sentient Drum Roll

The Under Story

Delaying Tactics

Welcome to the World Reborn on Easter Morn

Patriotic Endeavors

Spontaneous Combustion at Longwood

Chapter 4     Spiritual Uprising

Anointed Task

Luminosity

Divine Intake

Love’s Transfiguration

Sprinkled with Holy Water

Mother of the Long Sigh

The Gardener-Poet

In Her Garden (God’s Green Grace)

The Night Before His Son Was Born

Frozen Fears

The Priest Release

The Gift of Grace

Floating Free

Strangely Liberating

One Bird

Passion Puddle, a Spiritual Journey, (Douglass ’59)

To Janet Floating Free at Eighty

Albums Are Forever

A Mirrored Prayer

The View From the Iron Lung

Splitting Stars

The Maw of the Sea

The Essence of Crescent Beach

The Old Order Amish at Longwood

The Mindfulness of Plants

The Rock Laid Bare

Leaving the White Mountains too Soon

Mandate From the White Mountains

The Light Comes Through

Angel Trumpets at Longwood

Chapter 5     Cool

The Blessings of Being Uncool

The Great Wave

The Soft Insinuation of Snow

Kotex or Context?

Cruise Control

Trees

Where Do They go?

Autumnal Transparency

Poetry in Motion

Still Life After Thanksgiving

The Secret Language of a Glassblower

The Woven Nest

Lebensraum

Rabbit Tales and Dragon’s Scales

Camera Obscura

Self-Appointed Star

Apostle Wave Caves

Impressible Fireworks at Longwood

Anne Spenser’s Designer Color Line (Harlem Reborn in VA)

The Born-Again Poet

Blue Marsh Lake

Crack of Dawn

Moon Glow

It’s Magic, You Know———

Chapter 6     Coping

Seduced by Estrogen

Hang in There Girls

Living Down Breast Cancer

Radiation Beam

The Cancer Relief Map

The Living Effigy

Tumor Humor (Waiting Room Truth)

A Fragmented Life

The New Do

Red-Letter Day

Moxie Pills

We Compress Because We Care

The Totem Pole

Eva and Her Cancer

Twin Side

Myopic Cornucopia

The Crooked Smile

The Shadowed Past Grasps

The Mask of Death Exposed

Collective Solutions

The Lady Who Stood on Her Head

Gray Gardens

Let’s Pretend!

Women Set Aflame

Poster Boy

The Smooth Roller

Make Do

From Stump to Stump

Your Worst Nightmare (From Who Speaks for Them?)

A Talk about Grandma Gatewood’s Walk

The Ropey Dopes of Society

Shadow Boy

Shortchanged Rainbows

A New Voice

The Stark Geometries of Age

The Soul Searcher (November Swim)

The Reflection Pool (9/11)

Chapter 7     Freshening

Clinging Vines

Freshening

I would I Were a Bird

Daffodils on the Run

A Toast to May

How to Align Heart with Hearth

Needlecraft

Feeding Frenzy

Nu Skin

Pearl (Documentary seen at the Oxford Arts Alliance)

A Walk on the Wildflower Side

Heritage Roses at Longwood

The Rescue of the Rose-Carved Chair

The Coffee Stain

The Rocking Chair Lobbyist

Following the Sun

White-Masted Market (Oxford, PA)

Claude Monet’s Le jardin à Giverny

Charity Filled Days (Primed For Life)

Mood Interruptus

Total Recall

In Search of Time

Bonnie Burns (Sanatorium in the Watchungs)

Once More Around the Pond

Maidenhair

Trees Beckon Us With Bird Song

Floral Mist

Dawn on Stinson Lake in the White Mountains

Freshening (Immigrants in NYC)

Chapter 8     Creatures with all the Features

What Are They Saying? (The Crows)

Bambi Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Parting the Green Briar

The Starvelings

A Creature With All The Features

Painted Ladies of The Tyler Arboretum

Turtle Time

The Vixen and The Hound

Pure Nature (Hershey Park)

Mistaken Identity

The Good Skate

Extreme Feline

Sunny Sage Saves the Day

The Kingfisher

Investors of The Trust

The Swan and I

A Wild Plume Between Fine Lines of Life and Death

One of the Mallard Kind

Synchronized Swim

Stage Struck

Deliverance

First Rights

Exercising Free Speech

The Sandpiper

Beauty and Beast Magnified

An Airy Dalliance

He Serves Best Who Only Stands and Waits

It’s a Dog Eat Dog World

Take Into Account the Hard Rebound

Flight of Raptors Over Hawk Mountain

Old Bones

Footfall

None but the Lonely

Chapter 9     Grounds for Music

Opening Up to Instruments

Plain Song From a Lady-in-Waiting

The Duet

Seems Like Old Times

Aires Tropicales

Piano Roll Blues

The Last Dance

Spring Overture

The Sweetest Sound in Heaven

The Dying Breed (Country and Western Song)

The Rockettes

Interlude

Chapter 10   What Have They Done to Our Dream?

What Have They Done to Our Dream?

Drink Water Like the Dear Animals Do!

Double Vision

Seabrook at Sundown

What Thoreau Missed

The Changeling

The Promise of the Silver Maple

The White Stag

Singing Wire

Making the Rod Sing

No Contest

The Water Hold (The Inconstancy of Time)

Lost Loons

Mankind’s Folly

The Mother Load

Chapter 11   Gramma School

The Company of Children

Gramma School

Nana Old and New

The Junker

The Last Laugh

The Willing Servitude

Hildy’s Song

The Birthday Cake

A Boy’s View of the Battle of Brandywine

Ben and the Whopper

Flections

Kudos for Billy Blastoff

Leave-Taking

Elbow Grease

The Schism Between Aphorisms

Blue Belle, Doll Remembered

The Bull Calves

Emily Dickinson For Addie

The Rainbow Bridge

Surf’s Up!

Crescent Beach Walk with Elena and Addie

The Meandering Creek Speaks to Me

A Chocolate Cake House {written by Addie, (9), edited by Nana, (76)}

My Playmate, the Sea (Nana (76) and Hildy (6)

Elena at Bat {inspired by Elena (12), who lived it}

Fall Mist (Ben, age 12)

Red - The Color of All Colors (a potential prize winner-Hildy, age 10)

Chapter 12   Widow’s Walk

If He Should Die First

A Foretaste of Death

Educated Guess

The Last Stand

Earth-Drawn Hunger (Read at Dave’s Remembrance)

Widow’s Walk

Two Weeks Gone By

Impression

At Ebb Tide

Two Minds in One Accord

The Melody Lingers On (A Widow’s Lament)

Bride and Groom

Usury

Through Rack and Ruin to Moon Glow

Hurt Not the Trees (from Revelation)

When Will It Not Be Enough

Self to Self

Color Coated World (Adult Coloring Books)

Roles Revealed and Configured

Floatation Device

A Widow’s Flight Plan

Vacation Musings After A Return to Normalcy

Setting Out for New Found Freedom

I Alone Own

When I’m Gone

Author’s Note

INTRODUCTION TO FLOATING FREE

Poetry is akin to an ever widening boulevard with crosswalks blending with our thoughts, our experiences, our dreams and the Universe. Never hardwired, but malleable to our intentions with shadows pulsating, even balking, paved neither in concrete nor stone but reaching toward a mnemonic zone. I hope to arouse spontaneous combustion or a delayed depth charge.

The Poetry in this book was born out of Necessity and Strife while honed with Insight. Not confined to a certain time and place, but changes with the advancement of the years, and you can hear and feel the priorities blending with the bond and high stakes of my Intake. At times I feel like a hovering speck removed from the immediate scene, yet circumspect, and moved to explore its inner workings as a theme.

There are a wide range of subjects from Speaking in Other Tongues, which treats my father’s dementia in a refreshing new way as well as my mother’s steadfastness, who communicated her love through her pedal craft on the old Singer, (Pumping Pedals for Our Lifeline); while Tell Me a Story exposes Buffalo Bill and my Grandfather. Gramma School uncovers the spontaneity of children; the Natural World is revealed in Creatures With All the Features; our environment in What Have They Done to our Dream? for we all need to remove any distinguishing features like politics to protect our Air, Water and Land from those who would exploit them for their own gain. Spiritual Uprising elevates the simple act of hanging out laundry to an Anointed Task while a traumatic brain injury in the Priest Release frees him from rituals, but makes him more humble and humane caring for those impacted by dementia. From the Blessings of Being Uncool to It’s Magic, You Know tracing the High Line in New York in a keyhole design to punctuate the city taking the place of the old Elevated, both included in Cool. War and Peace examines Lincoln’s erudite contributions in Perfect in His Words, while the Under Story illustrates the many combatants who come home unwilling to reveal any details. Widow’s Walk relates to my own experiences and those of other women, who have to create a new life for themselves after their significant other is gone.

I find enchantment everywhere even in the midst of despair, to lift one’s soul above the fray of everyday conflicts, no matter how I feel. I have learned to reel in wishes on appeal like my Grandson in The Whopper part of the ever evolving Gramma School. In the chapter, Coping, the outer trappings fall away leaving me vulnerable and exposed where I struggle with my breast cancer and melanoma. Tumor Humor for those undergoing Radiation Treatment furnish me with heroic stories; the Ballet of the handicapped in the Y Nautilus Room; the wheel-chaired salesman in The Smooth Roller, who just tries to fit in; and those who have settled into their own faux life in Gray Gardens. Ending with The 9/11 Reflection Pool.

The beauty of the Mountains I came to view but in a different way because they symbolize both the Beginning and Ending Note in my Life. (Mandate From the White Mountains). At a distance all is revealed, the silvery valleys touched with dew, how the sun superimposes its shine, rinsed clean of dirt and debris, a rallying point to elevate to a Sublime Note while The Maw of the Sea captures the Divine, all included in Spiritual Uprisings.

I feel that form is less important than meaning, and sometimes I prolong the message it encompasses, while other times I accelerate and intone the verbiage like a song. Yet in the Final Analysis, it’s what each person takes away from the poem, and how they make it their own which counts. It traces my creativity from my first true awareness to the present for I truly believe the last of life for which the first was made because of the wisdom garnered and generated:

never giving up Hope

ignoring the warnings of the slippery slope

where stands Death, a bluish distillate. (Rilke)

(Maidenhair)

To unite seemingly disparate poems, I had to have a connecting thread to create the pages of this book, as my own Life to represent a kind of Wholeness. Floating Free, a poem, I wrote early on became symbolic of my struggle to survive breast cancer, melanoma, and the loss of my mother, my father’s dementia, and finally in latter life, my husband’s untimely death with a poignant impact (Rack and Ruin). He was truly the Fix It Man, I could never compete with, yet my spirit survived when the children stepped in with their offerings and perspective of a new but equally meaningful Life. When the grandchildren came, I made room for them with their definitive outbursts representing for me a New World Order to drive the lingering fires of my life:

Setting out all alone with the barest of necessities

with only my internal compass to guide me,

without a cell phone to remind me,

just a notebook and a pen to defend me.

It’s only then when I know

the full extent of my liberty to compose:

(Setting out for New Found Freedom)

When these inexplicable moments arrive, I am poised with pen for there is no cure for them otherwise, and nothing even a beating heart can compete for this moment will be forever engraved on my Being, Floating Free of Dialogue and Doubt.

CHAPTER 1

Speaking in Other Tongues

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You lose so much with Dementia, only the past shines as a guiding light, and we filled in the blanks for Dad leading him through the encroaching night with our legacy of words. We learned from his new perspective, which included other languages as well as confabulation. It helped us better understand how His World might be interpreted. The last to go was his sense of Self. Sometimes nonverbal actions tell a story of love and friendships, which supersede words. Often a Poet goes from the Real to the Surreal with a blending of both to create a mesmerizing Effect.

How could he lose it all, the memory of,

except for the imprint made before her time,

impoverished words deceiving her belief in him,

inexpressible words while she lay in a coma,

while he bartered for her life.

It’s where we came in after she died,

purged him of words which weren’t refined,

filling his bottomless pit with design

to give him a sense of who we were,

(The Legacy of Words)

The firing up, the drowning out, the moving on

of mother’s pedal craft;

skimming over impediments like rules in school,

filling the barren desert of the Foreign Legion,

the Singer’s barrage of images carried on.

(Pumping Pedals for Our Life-Line)

When Dad saw his old friend, Claus, they embraced

as only strong men can, assumed the stance.

Mother’s darkening countenance gave us the clue,

to clear the deck as they sized each other up,

two middle-aged bucks locking horns, making moves

wrestling each other down to the bare floor.

(The Take Down)

Dementia-ridden, he came to live with me.

Langsam, (slowly) he said in German

when I rushed him along in a chaotic world

he no longer owned. French, even Latin

flourished in his talk, an Irish brogue in his songs.

———often leaving a trail of crumbs for me to follow

out of the woods at last 10 years later.

Breast cancer no longer contained me,

I broke through filling in the blanks of my recovery,

speaking in other tongues in my poetry.

(Speaking in Other Tongues)

The Legacy of Words

What you have upstairs nobody can take from you!

It’s what got Mother through World War 1 in Germany,

I can do anything I put my heart and hand to,

which brought her to America as her due.

It urged us on rank-and-file in school,

state-of-the-art through college,

not accumulating wealth, but words were our stealth

encompassing a world within their borders.

It’s what Dad first said upon meeting her, at last

she found an accomplice, not in so many words,

but astute nouns, soft seamless verbs, adjectives clinging

to Truth, converging on her consciousness,

a virtual template, almost absurd to her plain spoken roots.

Do you understand me little girl? He asked,

looking down on her sturdy form. I do, she said,

her pink cheeks looking up to his pale high brow,

while they slipped like pearls from his lips,

so accomplished in words and love.

We grew up on words divided between them,

words which came to a point from mother,

words which built one upon the other,

an exhibition utterly astounding by dad.

We cozied up to them at story time,

slurped them down like ice cream, splurged on them,

till they colored our future and dreams.

They came to an abrupt ending when dad could

no longer fend for them.

Her fine stitching of words through 65 years of marriage,

subject to such unraveling, lapsed words

where synapses collapsed

until they were condensed into a childlike testament,

the ring of authenticity devoid of erudition,

confabulation as he tried to fill in the blanks.

How could he lose it all, the memory of,

except for the imprint made before her time,

impoverished words deceiving her belief in him,

inexpressible words while she lay in a coma,

while he bartered for her life.

It’s where we came in after she died,

purged him of words which weren’t refined,

filling his bottomless pit with design

to give him a sense of who we were,

inheritors of her Divine resolve.

Marriage Vows

She wanted to be together with him

for the rest of her life.

She knew she had a long way to go,

just for starters on their honeymoon,

they climbed Mt. Adams.

(Plucky German bride, on a White Mt. High,

provided a way for our lives to materialize.)

There was no easy way down in the blizzard,

they even sent out searching parties,

her woolen pants worn out on the rock-encrusted trail,

but she kept her promise as long as she could

through Life’s Travail,

but didn’t quite make it,

had to let go before he was ready,

she was the clinch pin,

even though she was half his size.

Like a cat with nine lives,

he was still fooling the public,

rose from the dead a number of times,

always thinking she was just a whistle away;

company coming, sugar, working in the garden,

hanging out clothes on the backyard line

until at last he heard her calling,

but it was more evasive until they were finally face-to-face.

Maybe they struck out again for Mt. Adams’ obscure peak,

but this time it was fair weather heavenward

as far as the eye could see.

The Golden Pear

The magnetic pull of the ripe golden brown pears,

Hilda’s delight. "This year the tree’s outdoing itself!

Outside in the fresh air," she shooed Bob, went herself.

He felt the spring in his step face to face with the tree

taller than most pear trees dared, a twinge of guilt

to prune it within an inch of its life each February.

Formfitting the heavy-boned ladder with his own solid frame,

he traced his youth, paying out slowly his senior days,

braced the ladder into the groove of the gnarled trunk,

heavy rooted to the ground, it wouldn’t let him down.

He understood the tree’s nuances, felt its burning pulse:

making room for the robin’s nest, the way it raised its

branches to ripen pears, teased by hanging out of reach,

letting them drop down again when the wind passed through,

while the cherry’s fruited boughs succumbed to the hurricane.

Against a bright September sun, he waved to his wife

of sixty odd years, he was strong-willed and virile yet.

With shrouded vision, he couldn’t see her anguished face

or hear her mumbled plea. "Get off old fool,

you’re not as young as you pretend to be!"

She’s just making music, the only foe was age staring back.

He and the ladder had grown so fond of the engagement.

Once he had climbed high enough the juices in his mouth

were already tasting the succulent sweetness in the air.

Just for a moment perfection poised there: blue sky,

sun on his back, the golden Bosc close enough to grasp.

No reason to believe the tree would let him down. It did.

Unable to compensate, he fell in a heap

still attached to the heavy-boned ladder,

unwilling to admit defeat.

Stunned, more likely a small stroke, he struggled up,

Hilda half dragged him up the stairs, where he became

a prisoner in his bedroom for weeks on end. A golden pear,

a cross to bear, the Garden of Eden all over again.

He never could quite straighten up mind or body again.

I should have taken the ladder away! My husband exclaimed.

Dad would have found another way of exhibiting

full-bodied strength, marked feats of balance and agility,

a part of growing up and surviving once.

So much was being chipped away in 85 years of just living!

Pumping Pedals for Our Life-Line

It seemed such a mystery to me

how mother’s discerning feet soft-pedaled:

a school dress for me,

a shirt for Bob so seamlessly;

while her eyes strayed out the streaming window

where we released pent-up energy,

her feet drumming with alarm,

whipping up furiously Cowboys and Indians,

Robin Hood and his Merry Men with neighborhood pals,

a peasant skirt with bodice for me, Maid Marian,

or just one of the delinquent boys,

green felt hat with a feather.

How smooth the transitions igniting fires within

for out-of-reach fantasies

from raw material dreams.

Mother pumping up to make good

with plausible costumes,

a Prom dress for me, Dresden blue

like her china from Germany.

Our memories worn into grooves

of shadowed late afternoons, themes

that blossomed into youthful enterprise.

Out of those schemes came Bob’s

Helping and Human Relations,

Possibilities Mind,

and my Poetry that spans the gap

while so many fall victim behind

adulthood’s guarded lines.

The Singer sang for its supper,

Mother steadied her wandering feet

throbbing with emotion to repeat

appassionata the vision of her children,

rising above the stagnant waters of love.

The firing up, the drowning out, the moving on

of mother’s pedal craft;

skimming over impediments like rules in school,

filling the barren desert of the Foreign Legion,

the Singer’s barrage of images carried on.

Ready to change or quicken the pace

when the grandchildren came:

ready to carry on with a coon-skin cap

on top of young Dan’l Boone;

a yellow paisley costume with bonnet

for two-year old Sue

at the Bicentennial at Valley Forge.

New places, new faces designed,

until she had exhausted her resources,

and sent us on our way;

while she sewed on and on with her thought waves

of interconnecting thread,

weaving prayers for our safekeeping

even into her grave.

The Take Down

When Dad saw his old friend, Claus, they embraced

as only strong men can, assumed the stance.

Mother’s darkening countenance gave us the clue,

to clear the deck as they sized each other up,

two middle-aged bucks locking horns, making moves

wrestling each other down to the bare floor.

Clearly Claus knew the Greco Roman moves,

a one time wrestling champion in his youth,

while dad learned catch-as-catch can for survival sake.

The blond Adonis was a showman, a womanizer,

Hollywood tanned, runner-up for the role of Tarzan.

Once Dad got in the groove, he was an immovable force,

a boy again, no longer deprived of the fun of growing up.

Our puny lives seemed such distant enterprise,

living room carefully vacuumed, dusted and polished,

faded as we stood ringside at the world’s champion match.

We needn’t have worried our hero would be pinned

through a well-placed headlock or hammerlock,

it always ended in a draw, though Claus wanted more.

Each encounter over the years was less intense—a token,

Claus, his beautiful physique ravaged, broken

dispelling the myth of timelessness. Finally—all holds barred,

a quick embrace, a little parrying, a hand shake

initiated by dad for friendship’s sake,

it said the unsayable, you’re the better man!

We were stunned to hear Claus died in an auto crash,

whiskey bottle stashed under the driver seat.

A tragedy for dad, strong and resilient to the last,

the grip of his massive hands, a force to be reckoned with

in spite of the rack and ruin of dementia;

who encompassed our lives as only a gentle man can,

who bowed out gracefully at the greatest fight of his life.

At the end, hand reaching out from underneath the blanket

to shake the Hand of the one and only true Champion.

Mother’s Airtight Alibi

You had become like one, Dad’s folded over body

to encompass yours, you stretching toward him

with your full height and determined carriage,

while he carried his philosophy to a fruitful flowering.

So much veracity, so much invested in your direct access.

The way you started each day, and ended with a kiss

as you took down your coronet of braids,

that big hunk of a man bedded down again,

even into your last day when you filled him in:

"stay in bed until seven, I’ll be back from church in an hour,

and make your breakfast then."

There was no stalemate,

every word joined by mating notches,

like a child he nodded,

indentured for life while everything else slipped away,

when church never felt so far away,

your spirit already divested

from your body bogged down on a curb

reserved for yesterday’s refuse.

The old should wear out their lives and their shoes!

You said once before you died.

Dad let you disappear into the incomprehensible

when he came to our house to stay

while trying to pick up the pieces.

Hilda’s in the garden or hanging out clothes,

he filled in his audience and looked for her too.

Her life was lived with a big gulp of frische Luft, (fresh air)

a willingness to give, always trying to catch her breath.