our emotions are magma
fitfully churning underneath the crust
that we vainly hope is all of who we are,
all in control, and steady as she goes,
I am blessed with being a hot spot
where the heat doesn’t just slowly rise
and shape the above from deep beneath,
rather, it forces its way out, shows itself,
and I know what drives me,
at least enough to see it and guess at a name,
as my grandchildren leave to go home,
as my children and spouses leave to go home,
I cry hot tears,
I sit here in the evening,
and my gaze is drawn to artifacts and pictures from the Smokies,
the tools I’ve found and gathered still hold the shape
of the work and vision they partnered in the shaping,
like the tools, the mountains are built well-enough
to hold and remember
so that I can reach to truly remember and imagine,
and I feel the sad joy with which memory honors what once was,
I surround myself with talismans that ache to embody
what has been wrought and thus help me envision
what can be wrought, what should be wrought,
book after book fill my shelves
and use words and the authors’ sense
to open a window as well as the tools do
and as well as the emotions do
which will not let me rest in the illusion of constancy,
last night I drifted off to sleep
and my subconscious burst forth
with horrible dreams of loss after loss
of all that I love in a trial and vanishing
as verdict after verdict rules it is time for dissolution,
today, the day after, is of leaving,
and it’s also of laundry and putting the house back together,
I miss the fullness that filled the house,
and I also like the time alone now
so that my thoughts and feelings can separate themselves
in the order and quiet
from the crescendoes that have been so full the last few days.
by Henry H. Walker
December 30, ’11
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