l won’t reveal sacred memories
that play on convex screens
of closed eyes.
I will show you scars
from celluloid razors that cut deeply
when I try to step into home movies
to relive days we were allowed
to exist on the same plane.
Her sunlight was always
two steps ahead of me.
Feet were never sandy.
She just skimmed above the battered shore
as bubbles of her laughter floated overhead:
pink balloons rising higher and higher.
Somewhere among shooting stars
they’re floating still.
When nights are deeper than the canyon,
I listen to hear them pop.
Old VHS tapes of the “Midnight Special,”
and Stevie Nicks became part of our tribe.
We sang our own version of “Rhiannon.”
Her gold threaded hair touched
the piano keys as she adjusted
her posture to play.
I limped along on a rhythm guitar
with family harmony on our side.
“Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night…”
Profound words that music inspired
her to write in her delicate voice
still ring on faraway summits.
She deserved joyous bells
of pristine Christmas mornings
and wedding bells that broke
Champagne bottles of a
sleepy Southern town.
Instead, she got a solemn death knell
that announced her leaving.
I wanted the world to bow its head
when those bells resonated through me threatening to crack my mind
as I became the priest of letting go.
River Blue 2022