I drank a toast on Christmas Day—
a toast to you, my musical bride,
and to your life, so grave, if brave;
improper it seemed, but also right.

Our story seemed a fairied myth
and one we never chose or dared.
So when you died at forty-five
I deemed it neither right nor fair

that I should venture on while you—
as with the cloud that spawns the rain—
should play no part in downstream deeds
except in stories of glorious pain.

Yet I have learned in latter days
that I’ve defined the journey wrong:
You still remain within this tale—
one note of your eternal song.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
This entry was posted in About Jenn, Other, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Fermata

  1. Brian D. Kelley says:

    Such a beautiful expression of the hope that exists in the middle of a pain that can never truly disappear

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