A youngest daughter shouldn’t ever die
Her beauty never flatten, like made things;
The home she made to host invited guests
Should be immune to tumorous growing greed.

A cry goes up: Can nothing overrule
This swollen mocking justice?
Or did the trial metastasize her soul?

She turns her head: the cottage by the sea!
The smell of spruce and ocean greet her there,
Their welcome guest. She sees no one but grows
In sensate waiting; not the noxious swelling
Sense of dread, but radiating warmth
That feels like family-
Remitting her to host the reunion.

Written Jan 5, 2012 © Bill Martin, All rights reserved
Dedicated to the memory of my Aunt Barb, d. 12/14/11


I really like this poem:

It has, in its muted skepticism, a ring of truth, the kind of truth the preacher in Ecclesiastes would have acknowledged. Skepticism can be the back door into a true faith. Then again, it may be an avenue to suicide. What we can’t know doesn’t have to imprison us, but in my view, we need a glimpse above the sun. Skepticism is sometimes a dull mirror catching transcendent rays.

I’m not sure Weldon Kees ever traced those rays to their source.