In the Aftermath

I am on my bed in an old shirt 

and it is the end of a long summer, 

so the world has started to move 

again, this time leaving me behind, 

gasping. This space is too unfamiliar, 

this silence too unwelcome.

And I am on my bed in an old shirt 

reaching for a pen

in the absence of a hand to hold. 

But there is no poetry in loneliness, 

no requiem for those left behind.

But I suppose growing up is painful that way. 

There are less metaphors for the shape of your 

eyes and we are both less adults

than overgrown children.

Overgrown in the way the root of a tree 

forces its way through cement, 

apologetic, unwelcome.

And they will not know that

writing poetry is less a matter of swirling storms 

and hurricane tears,

but more a river in summer, slowly

bending its way to sea.

Words carefully treading their way to the

deep blue of the ocean.

I am older now, and when the words come 

they do not trip over themselves in the leaving. 

I have grown used to the hurricanes,

but there is a quiet calm in the aftermath.