Leaving, March o4, 2o15

Been a long while since I wrote a poem. This is another one that I started but for some unknown reason never finished. When I feel as if I'm really in the writer's headspace, I start to really rewrite with abandon and specificity. I feel as if I've done that here. Still, is it actually good enough to be called poetry?

Leaving

 

My apartment, west wall, a window, nailed shut.

Not a big, gigantic window, just enough space
to squeeze through and out onto the  A-shaped roof
that covers the decaying front porch.

 

Spectacular view from out there, our sun setting.

Twilight, a sprinkling of burnt orange light
on the horizon; It always surprises me.
I'm never ready for the days to leave.

 

It makes me smile, though,

this dying tome of day.
it always seems to say to me,
“We’re moving on
within a brilliant flash of light.”

 

And we mourn the loss.

Since the beginning 
we’ve wept the passing day,
the fading rays,
the quiet darkness brings.

 

But what a way to go, if I must go,

“. . . within a brilliant flash of light.”

 

Everyone will know: I was here.

That I lived and then I left without regret,
no hesitation, no goodbyes
to those few friends who might—

 

No, my friends will certainly mourn me

in the same sad silence that I’ve mourned
the end to every single moment I have known.
Woodie o4-o3-15