Visiting Bosjep

In my heart was born
one more sadness.
I had hoped it would be a
flower that soon will wither.
Instead, it became as weed from which
other sadnesses grew
perennial and pestilent.
My hands are not apt to sculpting the shape
of melancholy.
They are not equal to the task of writing of
how much I miss you,
Sagittarian honeycomb, palm
of good deeds,
refuge of my sorrows,
secret fountain of my invincible days.
Vessel of finite breaths, you
of brave grace and splendor,
I watched, consumed by helpless silence,
as you took your last
and then, the somber summer of
my orphanhood began.
With mournful skies above
your granite bed of permanent stillness,
I offer you these
flowers that soon will wither.
This is all I have.
This and the memory of your last whisper
assuring me that you
are leaving for a better place.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes