Seasons

I can’t help but see you, in the changing of the leaves 
The bright yellows, oranges, and reds
And be reminded
Of the years we had
And the conversations we shared
The times I made you laugh
Floating, dropping
Settling to the ground
I can’t help but feel you
In the beautiful gray skies
When the light of the sun
Is gentle on my eyes
And remember our springs
Our summer
That has faded into fall
And found you wasted away
I can’t help but dread
The nagging of your absence
As the trees become barren
And the sparkling 
Delicate snow
Eases to the ground 
I can’t help but stare longingly
At those limbs
And remember a time
Once
when the trees bloomed
And know that sadly
These trees
Will never bloom again

I’ve been going back and reading old posts, which I never do. My mind has been revisiting the things I used to feel, and I happened to be led there. It might not be a good idea, but it is a good reminder from where I came. I’ve been reading a lot of my posts about suicide, and my attempts. One, which I wrote on the anniversary of one of my attempts, I intended on adding another poem to, but it seems I did not. So, I want to add it now.

**********

The Poem I Did Not Write

I see my life in seasons

unfolding behind me

like landscapes:

rolling hills with greenery,

the brilliant colors of trees in fall,

unexpected snow,

or sunsets over water

in my rearview mirror as I drive away,

and it is gone.

I revisit these places

that once were home.

Each previous address.

The walls, they do speak.

The men that came and went;

The labor it takes to remove the smell

of vomit-drenched carpet;

The ghosts that waved good-bye

when it wasn’t my time.

The echoing of sobs.

 

I am making this journey in solitude,

but aren’t we all?

At the end of the day,

it is only ourselves

and God.

And those who drop in for a visit

once in a while.

 

I’ve spent years wondering

if my wails will rattle these walls

long after I am gone.

Will I haunt this place

like it still haunts me?

 

When I was 12, I wrote a poem

in which I stated

“I was meant to die by my own hand.”

I have not forgotten the line,

it rings loudly in my mind

like a catchy tune

that you cannot shake.

And the only way to ease the urge

is to listen to it

one more time.

 

When I was 31,

a medium told me

that I would not wed,

and those words too,

they will not leave me,

though everyone else has.

 

I never realized until now

That each morning is the clean slate

I was searching for

for years.

That each sunrise is my chance to try again.

Each face I meet, I memorize

inside my heart,

appreciating its beauty,

savoring its presence

before it is gone.

Though I am not sure

whether the recalling

either harms or heals.

 

And this is where I’ve found myself

stopped along the road.

The joy, my God,

is warmth

and light.

It is infectious.

Vibrant and healing!

And I come alive.

It soothes me in the waiting.

It holds me in the dark.

My loveliest companion.

 

And even so,

I still have times

when I can hear the darkness whisper,

calling me back.

And despite my knowing

how deeply it aches

I find myself tempted

to revisit it as well.