The Aftermath of the Storm – A Poem by Heather

The Aftermath of the Storm - A Poem by Heather

Yesterday, I shared a poem that David wrote after we witnessed the most beautiful sunset at a nearby park. Today, I share the poem that I wrote at the same time. We didn’t read each other’s work or exchange ideas until after we had finished writing. I think it’s fascinating, seeing the similarities and the differences in our belief systems, as expressed in our written words.

The Aftermath of the Storm

I stared up at the sky tonight
at the gilded clouds drifting
in the aftermath of the storm.

I think I was hoping
to catch a glimpse of
the heaven that is promised
by those who believe
in such things.

I could almost see it,
hiding just behind the
ocean of deep blue waves
and the sun’s last brilliant rays.

Or maybe that was just
my wishful thinking.

The Aftermath of the Storm - A Poem by Heather

I think this poem goes well with this week’s Studio 30 Plus writing prompt, “Showers”. If you’re a writer and you haven’t visited S30P yet, you are definitely missing out!

Studio 30 Plus - Writer's Community

The Hungry Earth – A Poem by David

The Hungry Earth - A Poem by David

We spent yesterday evening at a new park near the airport, where the sky is more open than I’ve seen since we left Texas. It inspired both David and I to write. Today, I share David’s eloquent poetry. Tomorrow, I will share mine.

The Hungry Earth

My watery eyes gaze
transfixed upon the ocean of turquoise,
my skull resting on the cold stone,
arms folded across my chest.

The alabaster mists adrift, miles above,
burnished in azure fire rolled into silken form,
expelling the grey gloom from their domain.

Drips of dew glitter off the grass around me,
falling to feed the hungry earth
and thirsty tendrils the illusion of their magic.

The summer air caressing my arms
as if to assure me that my sorrow is understood
by the specter of this forgotten path.

And yet, no voice speaks wisdom to me from that heaven.
No choir stands ready to defend His honor
from the tears of doubt that blend in the rain.

She lives in my memories,
pained as they are to hold.
And I will still wish upon the coming stars
that tonight, my child rests with God.

The Hungry Earth - A Poem by David

A Memory Box of Treasures

A Memory Box of Treasures

I’ve done a lot of thinking and remembering in these last few days leading up to Clara’s first birthday. Earlier this week, I went through the memory box that we received from the hospital, taking time to appreciate these treasures that help us capture our short time with Clara.

We have a stack of cards from dear friends. We have a lock of Clara’s soft dark hair. We have her hand prints and footprints, both in ink and in ceramic. I am immeasurably grateful for each piece of treasured memorabilia. They are all we have left, and they are irreplaceable.

At the bottom of the memory box, I found the poem that my sister-in-law Mishelle read at Clara’s memorial service. It is lovely and brings tears to my eyes.

Of course, nearly everything does that these days.

It is cathartic to remember, to mentally experience all of those sensations and emotions again. We have many photographs that I haven’t looked at since last July. It is heartbreaking to look at them now. I had already forgotten so many details of my poor sweet baby’s beautiful face and body.

It is sad to remember, but it is good to remember.

Memory Box Poem - These Are My Footprints #grief

We Are The Rememberers

David and I are going to our first infant loss support group meeting tonight, hosted by Share Upstate. We’ve talked about going to a meeting since July, but he normally works too late. I’m very nervous about going, at the same time that I’m looking forward to it. I think it will be a very good thing for us to have people around us that have been through similar losses.

I’ve met wonderful people online who have helped me in processing Clara’s death, plus I have this blog as an outlet for my emotions. David doesn’t have those connections or the writing outlet, and he feels like this will help us with working through our grief.

I hope he is right.

Not an hour passes without Clara passing through my heart and mind, and while I never want to forget her, I would like for the pain to dull a little, for it to not cut through me like broken glass whenever I remember her sweet face.

We are the rememberers poem

We are the rememberers,
the people left behind,
to keep the one who’s gone from us
alive in heart and mind;
the people left to cherish and preserve a legacy.
Yes, we are the rememberers…
and we will always be.

Where I’m From – The Story of Me

Where I'm From - The Story of Me

Where I’m From…
I am from the front porch swing, from Strawberry Shortcake and sweet tea.
I am from the flat-roofed house, square, blue, warm.
I am from the grass, azaleas, mountains, the trees, roses, and the river.
I am from one present on Christmas Eve and silly names for cats, from Cosette and Tom, Edith and Anne.
I am from the strong-willed and good-hearted.

From intelligent and a smart mouth.
I am from nature. All things green and good and light.
I’m from Virginia, Scotland, beef stroganoff and pancakes.
From the marriage that would not last, the friends that would not stay, and the life experiences that money can’t buy.
I am from the piano, 9 long fingers on ivory keys, music flowing.

Where I'm From - The Story of Me