By Thai Braddick
As a young poet, I was obliged to find the beauty
in birdsong, in the golden hours before sunset,
in sharing my poems with you -
seeing your gentle nods of approval.
You know, I would sit on brick walls
contemplating everything.
What it means to grow, to dream,
or the meaning of good TV.
I remember wishing my life was more
dramatic, impactful, beautiful -
that things that mattered happened to me.
Then they did.
Winter. Spring. Your death.
The yellow butterflies at your funeral.
After you died, I couldn’t find-
Find the beauty in those golden hours
knowing they are moments from sunset.
I didn’t sit on brick walls. I marched.
Walked fast. Music loud. Thought less.
Only in quiet moments, I contemplated
my eczema. Dirty fingernails. Greasy hair.
Stress hives. Dark eyebags.
The white hospital walls. Turning up late –
too late to see you.
Too late to hear you laugh at one of my desert-dry jokes.
Too late to hold your warm hand one last time,
feel its paper-thin diabetic skin.
I’m trying again, you know
not well, I mean. I’m trying-
I’m trying to find it all again.
The beauty in the mundane.
Winter. Spring. My life.
I walk past the yellow butterflies in the meadow.
The early daffodils,
grape hyacinth, periwinkle,
crocuses like hands in prayer -
rising from the thawing ground.
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