My attempts are all gibberish,
intellectual blather,
grating grammar with lazy lines.
his death at hand
(and mine yet to come),
the terror of Grace,
from Life larger than these
ultimately frail human vessels.
of that persistent pulse,
a sacred Morse code
from his comatose hand
to my attentive one,
a transcendent dispatch
I cannot yet grasp.
years
upon
years,
countless salty soaked sleeves,
scores, if not hundreds, of poems, to
translate the divine message,
render both form and content,
surrender to its Mystery.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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