The Thanksgivings continue to add up
and my heart is no longer quite broken.
It is oddly lumpy and scarred and battered
and has lost the ability to mourn and wail
but it is definitely of one piece.
Every year a bit is gained a bit is lost
and I ignore the consequences of this.
It is a part of aging a part of life and of dying
that goes on until it doesn’t
until I am no longer aware of the sequence.
A memory here a recollection there
like relics to be prayed over and mulled.
I have collected all I can collect
that collection is now part of the background
and collects dust in place of tears.
Except every now and then a solitary spark
ignites the fire to flames once again.
These fires threaten to engulf and overwhelm
they crackle and spread from the center
to my mind to my heart to my soul.
Yet each time they start to burn and encroach
upon some unscarred ground they dampen down.
A lack of fuel a lack of oxygen a lack of heat
saves me once again from the memories
banked and dulled amongst the ashes.
Thanksgiving is a wind barely stirring the embers
though there are other days I dread and avoid.
I seek to pour water on the smoldering
I need to quench the center of the fire
that welds my lump of a heart together.