I miss him like a drum misses the hand
which beats rhythm to life upon its frame.
Life will not return like a spring rain
to race the creek beds home,
nor will it meet at the estuary
and dance with his brethren
as the moon springs from her slumber,
longing to comb the earth
with her golden hair.
A whole day of working in the meadow
has restored its splendor of years ago.
But this sight to me is melancholy.
That everywhere I look,
he is no longer with us.
So much beauty pours from this land,
and yet I cannot look upon he whom I adore.
This is the lonely
in which the fibers of god
have unraveled from my limbs,
leaving me undressed
as the harvest has yet to come.
©2013 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved