too late

We do this:
The guy we took for granted dies, and now
the stories come trickling out as if they were
somehow forbidden, but now the locks have been picked
the door to the vault is open, the seals are off:
we hear about his driving passions and learn
there are butterflies in heaven, whales dream
of God as an orange-green-silver-diamond-eyed
multidimensional thought, and he (the guy
we took for granted) radiates a light
softer than sunlight, fiercer than moonlight
more loving than prayer. Why did we not know this?

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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2 Responses to too late

  1. Shannon says:

    I love this poem.

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