"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." ~Thomas Gray
"Poetry unites." ~Anon
"Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it." ~Emily Dickinson
Written by Linda Stitt
She lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Her site: Linda's Passionate Intensity
Originally published in her book, Passionate Intensity,
published by Seraphim Editions in 2002
I was not done
with being your child;
I was still learning to love.
And it's all very well to say
I hold you in my heart
and that you teach me still,
and by the code that forms my flesh.
But there's an emptiness
too vast for my embrace.
Sometimes, I see your specter on the street
or seated with a cup of tea at hand
and, staggering with loss,
I move to take you in my arms,
to fit my cheek
into the hollow of your neck
and place my bulk
between the world
and your fragility.
But I cannot make you mine.
I cannot follow you
or bring you back
or, for my sins,
bestow your essence on another.
I could not have kept you,
ought not to bear the guilt
that taints my aimless grief,
do not begrudge you your release.
I let you go
and let you go
and let you go.
On my deathbed,
I shall forgive you.
Posted with consent of the writer.
Note: All written material is copyrighted by the individual writer and/or blog author, and may not be used without written consent. Copyright © Breathing Poetry 2009. All Rights Reserved.
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