The interaction between these two beautiful pieces is both heartfelt and somewhat mysterious. Is this the same person? Does one foreshadow the other? The reader builds his own story guided by the tender reflections of a thoughtful life.
Teresa E. Gallion has lived in Albuquerque, NM since 1987. She completed her undergraduate work at University of Illinois Chicago and her Masters Degree in Psychology from Bowling Green State University in Ohio. She retired from New Mexico state government. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Her most recent book is Contemplation in the High Desert (quatrains inspired by the poetry of Rumi).
Death is a Stone
Death is a stone
polished to perfection.
At the bottom of the river
a courtship with sand
does such things.
That’s what you tell me
the day you fall off the mountain.
You slide down its ruffled side
bump through stones,
twigs, branches and brush.
Sand moves with your weight.
You hit the arroyo on both knees.
A prayer of pain soaks bloody sand.
My dog snuggles you in warmth
while I run like hell to get help.
Why did you tell me such nonsense?
You raise your eyebrow to salute me.
As we sit on the couch, you say,
I told you the nonsense to distract
myself from the pain
and to give you the kick in the butt
you needed to calm down.
I smile and slap him gently
upside the head. Two broken arms
and two broken legs,
he cannot swing back.
Touch of Earth and Memory Pauses
Strained sunlight embraces the patio.
Fluid images make waves in my cup
as I sip morning coffee.
Your special chair glows
in the early earnest light
missing you as much as I do.
I roll memories on rose petal leaves,
seriously saturated green, like velvet,
draws me to touch your flowers
stored in my grieving garden.
A disconnect between real and illusion
flirts with my emotions.
I wander around
this spacious and sparse landscape
without the melodious movement of your voice.
Grief gathers momentum in my chest
seeking release to move on.
The live, let go ritual stirs in the soil.
I roam the garden
bestowed from your hand
searching for a standardized release.
Whispers in my ears say,
this is part of the healing process.
Poetry submissions are welcome. Email email@example.com.
Also, a great big note of Thanks to Rich Boucher for editing this column during my month-long absence!