His auto-biography written on a
storm that seemed like it would
never end.
So he learned to accept the
shivering soaking that followed
whenever he stepped out of the shelter
he’d built in his old broken heart.
Its walls are made of driftwood.
Branches and limbs from long dead
trees relinquished from the
higher hills a long time ago.
Discarded ideas of the future that
this storm ripped from their roots
and sent into the raging sea to be
worn smooth and returned to land
again like children coming home
to visit.
Its roof is a cheap vinyl tarp.
A matter of convenience.
And lightness.
And bang for the buck.
And it’s all that keeps him dry.
But for warmth
He’d say,
“Oh for warmth…
For warmth a man must step out
and endure the fury of these
skies.
And he must find something to
burn.
Like a dead branch on a living
pine tree.
Heartwood full of pitch that
burns hot,
even in this driving rain.”
I’ve written much of my own story
on a storm all my own.
Pages and pages of rain.
Many chapters.
No conclusion.
Until the tender touch of my lover
calmed the seas.
Until my family’s laughter
tamed the wind.
Until the cleansing ocean of my
newborn baby’s eyes reflected back
to the razor sky,
pierced the clouds,
and banished the darkness back
into the light from whence it came.
And until I built my own shelter
out of my father’s words in my own
broken heart.
“Oh for warmth
For warmth you’ll need to
venture out and endure what
you must
to find the living tree.
And burn its dead branches.
Heartwood full of pitch that
burns hot
Even in a driving rain.”
