I have always owned a ring box, inside it a dancing bug
Hand carved with love, from a grandpa who was dead
long before he died.
I open it when I am worn away, like a stone beneath a seaside
Shrinking into myself, until I am sand along the river bed
and I am reminded,
I have always wanted to be grit, and rough like a ranger
Like my grandpa who was, in lots of ways, Clint Eastwood
just from Utah.
But I don’t keep hooks for baling hay, and I’ve never roped a steer
The knives I keep are cookware, and would never carve a thing
except, on holidays.
So I won’t whittle any bugs, or work through any winter
In the ankle deep snow and slush, I will instead be here
behind a desk.
I build my memories not by carving things, but by carving beings
And while I have my wits about me, I will not forget my memory of
people and places I love.
If my carving comes about, and someday I am lucky to have my own
My grandchildren will know me, not by the things that made me, me
but instead by being
My greatest offering to them will be my very memory, the thing which
Everyone forgets is all I have to give. In stories and poems and songs
and carved up turkey.
I will not die before I am dead. Instead, I will live through memories
Others have of me. That way, when I wake up groggy and confused
on Christmas Eve.
It will not be your worry,
To remember my name.
It will be mine, through
everything I’ve told you.
Stowed away in a ring box, inside it a singing man.
No grit within his bones
All of it washed away and mixed
Into the sand.
Thanks for stopping by and reading, I hope you enjoyed it and I hope to see you again soon!
This month is full of new writing, from short stories to new chapters in my webnovel, all the way to poetry I’ve been writing lately. I’m excited to share so much with you, soon.
Catch up with me on social media where you’ll find more poetry and stay up to date on my release schedule as well as the coming projects I’ve got headed your way!