Rarely do You leave me at a loss for words.
Midwestern wit kicks in and my not-so dusty books
always hold thoughts
centuries saved, cherished, projected. Like flitting birds
darting across sudden blue sky, I always find, when I look,
a perfect idea sought,
the familiar twisted to strange. This morning though, I choke
down an odd roar wanting to warble ugly. I
indeed have reckoned if
it is just as lucky to die as live. I’ve asked why
more than children. Yet, I cannot grasp the little body broken,
the delicate body stiff
when only three years is all her eyes had to blink.
A sweet girl now whispers to You, tugs on what hems
You may
drag down golden avenues. Our empty hearts sink
into platitudes, life’s lessons, amazing grace, forgiven sins
and more muted raging about Your ways.
Michael P. Carriger
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