#1 Love Letter: Ode to the Poem
To my dear sweet poem
,
You are like a tiny seedling from a
mighty pine tree, sitting fallow for years, on the forest
floor, waiting for that majestic
fire to set you free.
I wonder where you come from, little
poem, this piece of magic, this gift from God. You sat silent, for years
at the center of my soul, bursting forth at that great fire, then at the coming
death of the one I love and adore.
You were the first one to come to
me, I never longed for you, as I longed for the birth of my children, yet here
you are, my first creation. I was sitting on the back porch of our home when
you first came to me. The family was sitting in the back, around the fire,
enjoying a laugh or two. I struggled to see how I fit, into their world.
Always at work was I, seeking the funds to keep us afloat.
The gardener was returning joy to
the ones, whose laughter I had not heard, in years. He had come, to produce the
cure, an herbal recipe, growing in the garage. I had no faith in the
cure. It was good to hear her laugh. Cancer would consume her soon
but the children would be left with the memories from the gardener. He
had come to bring the cure, but joy supplied him also.
You came with your gift, lying
fallow at the center of my soul. It consoled me, supplied the strength to
continue. Years it would take to find my place, in their lives
again. The anger and guilt and shame came out in the poetry. First to
Facebook and then to select close friends. Then to the one, I loved. This then
to return to intimacy long lost. I am thankful for your gift, dear poem.
To
Live with Death
He lives with death, Or is it life.
T'is life to love, this all it is.
He does it all, To come to this.
To this I come, Or do I leave
To leave and come, This life is all.
Steven
Bassett
Wrote this
in Aug 2015 in the midst of my wife’s cancer when we believed she was terminal.
I was born sterile;
my children were both adopted and they are the light of my life.
