Always smiling,
My dearest Clovette -
It is one of the things I love the most
About her,
But I only knew
The extent of her love, her trust,
When she came to me
Late at night
And had me hold her as she cried.
It was a privilege,
And yet the saddest occurrence
I can recall;
Desolate but still winsome,
Eloquent despite the severity
Of what ailed her -
Such strength I observed that night;
A sort of calmness,
A radical acceptance
Of things that were beyond her control,
But with that same acceptance
Of the irrational, of her feelings -
A remarkable display of wisdom,
And yet she still thanked me
For the mere act
Of putting my arms around her;
Simply for existing, it seemed,
As though I'd contributed somehow
To her reclaiming her peace,
Falling asleep,
Still within my arms.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
