White dots of blossom fly past my vision
and they remind me of the meaning of life.
Sweeping bundles of circular commitment.
And as they fly with disregard,
it’s the love of which we can’t help
that remains nestled deep within the gut,
unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
To the eye that through my choice
is kept blind.
A revelation stumped me yesterday as we waved goodbye;
we can’t help love.
It just is.
And to feel the despair that comes with it
is but a natural part of life.
It’s as natural as the birds singing in the morning,
or the waves crashing their solemnity in the dark night,
or these days, as natural as the word ‘like’.
See, we can’t help love, but we can certainly behold it.
Waving him off reminded me of loving with an open palm;
it’s always there whenever it’s needed,
return to it like a bird to its perch
or a religious man to his pew
or a baby to her womb.
I won’t help but miss you;
that feeling is rivalled, eaten
by the pride of which we bless you.
And the love that lives on
in the silent echoes of party memories,
in the crunch of fifty devouring home-cooked food
and in the music that cites photographic memory
to your last days here.
Now fly and spread those wings,
become the master of your own universe, brother.