Monday, September 19, 2011

To my Daughter, away from Home

It's like a face
that has just looked away:

it's like the outspread
hand of a dancer

when the footlights
are cut. A faint

sickle gleam
is laid over its cheek,

and it turns with
the rising or the setting sun.

Darling, don't grieve for home:
the ghosts are gathered

thick enough already; the light
has already bled into the ground.

10 comments:

rbarenblat said...

Beautiful.

Peter said...

The last two couplets are a great treat.

(My own daughter grieved for home for about five minutes. There's a poem in there somewhere, too, I reckon.)

jo(e) said...

Ah, that's lovely.

alembic said...

Lovely. And yes, the grief that cuts much deeper for us than for the ones looking back at us.

Dave said...

Nice.

Jayne said...

Oh, what a darling daddy. How could she not grieve for home? Beautiful, Dale. :)

Joyce Ellen Davis said...

...then they come back. At least, that has been my experience.

Patry Francis said...

I think we grieve for the light, the face, the outspread hand all our lives.

Thanks for reminding me of that.

Dale said...

Thanks, dear friends.

(And Joyce, yes, they do indeed! "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" as the song goes... :->)

Sabine said...

This is wonderful and of course it rings a bell, a big one, inside my head.