Genuine layers of shared soul,
a confidence
that it is you calling
and the phone rings.
The dog runs with me
to the window
before you turn at the corner.
You pass.
We mourn. Bury.
The despondence is an abyss.
An aching secret self –
a gnarled root in primal need –
slowly seeks sustenance,
grasps the thickest layer,
emerges as common womb,
begs to be discovered.
Craig,
I have always called you the Philosopher Poet and that you are!
I love the introspective turn you take for the voice of this poem.
It is impossible to read it without experiencing it. Another favorite
from your pen. (perfect title too!!)
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Before we even get to meet the anticipated person, they are gone; and yet we feel the loss.
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