Some of us suffer terribly,

the grass a sea of needles,

the birds singing in bitter cries

that break our hearts;

the floors unstable, the chairs

brittle and hard, their dead

wood unlovable and lost.

Some of us are singing

happily into death or into

afternoons with children

naming the shapes of clouds

that lead the shadows of force

off the sea. There is tea

in the evening and the windows

shine the inner spaces back to us.

Some of us are looking for answers,

good and evil and the best road

home, and where to stop

for the night with a dog.

Then at the end, will God still love

us if we’re spent?

Some of us can jump, dance, melt

the snow with our bodies, call down

the rain for something to laugh at,

restless in the hastening wind

or in a night without wine, spending

the hours with our ghosts.

Some of us find ourselves

in little cups left here and there

about the house, cups

chipped and faded by washing,

stained by the joy of our parents.

We hear their voices all night

in the breeze over the shingles

and in the chimney, all night.

©J. Kyle Kimberlin

2nd Draft, 12.07.2008