The Box

I thought that I could contain you;
that this box would somehow hold part of who you were,
so I could always have you.

At first, the dust was you.
How could it not be?
It came from your skin, your bones,
the makeup of your atoms,
burned to fit in this wooden cage.

The box became part of everyday life,
forever a reminder of your nearness,
and your crushing absence.
It stood and mocked me,
told me of your demise.
I even yelled at the box.
Could you hear me through
the space that separates us now?

Silence.

Until one day,
I woke up and heard you sing
in the byrd’s morning call,
in the plucked melody of guitar strings,
in the musical phrase’s lull and flow.

You began to live in the warm air
and the exhaled breath,
the pounding of my heart as I ran,
in life’s rejection and triumph,
and I realized
once and for all,
I could never contain you.

You never were one for boxes.

You can’t be just dust,
or bone,
or a picture,
or a memory.

You are music.
You are laughter.
You are song.
You are joy.
You are existence.

You are.

So today I let you be just that,
and I let go of my clenched fists,
holding you so tightly to my chest.

The dust that was you,
mingled with the earth,
and rock,
dirt and air,
wind and sun.

I see you,
ascend,
like the byrd that you are,

And I breath once again.

Lookout Mountain; Golden, CO.