Poem: widow’s window

widow’s window

My husband has died
a casket applied
with fire collide
death’s mist satisfied.

Thoughts of him brew
they cook and they stew
rains came and storms blew
for years these I knew.

One morning a sun
warm days now begun
life’s strings I can strum
my heart starts to hum.

Betrothed no more
stand at the door
feet on the floor
light shines afore.

My soul feels him still
and wants with a will
that marches the drill
of love’s easy thrill.

But now is my time
the present is mine
a future is prime
and all comes out fine.

(9/21/10)

My husband died from an aortic dissection at a young age (the inner wall of the artery over his heart broke), and every September on the pier at sunrise I write at least one letter to him in my journals on my life so far. In 2010 I wrote letter after letter until this, my first poem, came on the 8th anniversary. I felt like the poem did not come from me, but wrote itself. I get the feeling of marching when I read it.

Richard Bullock Jr. (12/13/54 to 9/12/02)

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