Two Poems: Something Durable

I would wrap you in cotton wool.
But these clouds are too high,
too skittery.

And more often than not,
are preceding fronts. 

I would wrap you,
but these hands
are like muslin curtains,

in how they hang loose,
sheer, transparent.

I would ask the fount of wisdom
to show up,

but sometimes it feels
like he has just left the room,
door ajar.

So I will wish you,
all the way from here,
something durable.

That you need not be
looking out windows,
wondering if they will hold.

Everything that would in the end

shatter us,
or cause us to fall,
cannot touch the soul.

Your grandmother might have said that,
and she (who has lived through two wars)
would have meant it,

standing as she did
on two frail legs.

Yes, You,
who have lost so much,

I have no yarn to spin
to shield you.

I have no promise, or consolation,
and that is the loss
in the loss,

how everything we place
our faith in is,
after all,

a deck of cards.

And yet,
if I could pass anything on,

it would be a stubborn belief in hope,
in continuation.

Something your parents knew
when they first gazed upon
each other’s faces,

perceived your silhouette,

still only a glimmer of someone yet
in the imagination.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are things,
and then there are things—

your father’s sacred books,
your mothers rugs,
your grandmother’s likeness
upon the wall.

All now covered
in layer upon layer of dust.

We are not meant to be attached to things,
especially those not needed
for survival.

But they are the link
between people,

and the story
without words
that didn’t need to be told.

They are us, really,
when all is said
and done.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
February 2023