It's not so bad to be gone.

I am grateful for all the chances

I have had to start over—

What a blessing to know that nothing

will last.

For friends who swayed

in fertile ground—

We helped each other survive

ourselves time and again.

I long for the bittersweet satisfaction

of knowing

there was a time when my mother needed me

above all else.

How I wish to meet her again,

and how I often do in strangers.

It’s not so bad, after she’s gone away

to give me the hope

that most of us are good—

Most of us seek out the joy

that knows to bring us tears,

to sob with a smile,

to uncover the meaning of memory in waking life.

Dimes in the floorboards,

messages without names, the glow of morning

in my window

and old bones in the garden of this house

I slowly make a home.

Still, my grandmother's crooked pinkies

and wandering feet call me east,

time and again—

to the sickly sweet decay of the creekbed

where treasures and worries lay.

And I yearn to gently roam with

a softer heart, and eyes wide, wrinkled with

wisdom.

I've met my maker, and I've declined the devil—

And I've found peace in knowing

they've learned to love each other.