Soft hour of evening
a pale line where a path would be.
Traced causeway light
amid botanic field,
to reverse potential for catastrophe
due to apostrophes, young strophe
imperative as chalk.
The long shot that perspires a natural
reprise as if
to sweeten what we breathe.
Once I found a way to look, I asked him
about humor I consider God.
And he told me it is not like that.
He spoke light in the mother tongue.
Admitted he was busy doing conferences,
was crowded into obligations.
Assured me it was not unpleasant there.
And asked that I watch over
the two boys.
I sought a spritz of guidance, and he told me
I have everything I need.
I could do anything.
Having lived for years along the path he gave.
Having known depth perception minus harshness.
Having been freed of him awhile.
For in the war he was the war
Receiving those configured messages.
Translating them to pour along clear paths.
Ears once brushed with love,
he was a child profoundly
And I still follow his pure polished compass,
ride the earthly vehicle he gave,
that I might speak back to him beyond the echo tones.
© Sheila E. Murphy