Our Fathers Who Art In Heaven

Death loves life so much it takes it

leaving we the living weeping over love’s death.

Heaven waits.

Still

the living say let it wait.

And to those who wait for us there, who have eternity as their alarm clock

and the light of heaven as their canopy

we regret they won’t be here for supper. On this birthday on this day of death.

Love.

It keeps us alive.

Too loved to ever die their tombstones should say with a sigh as soft as the dying light

losing its grip on the horizon.

Her fingertips pressing hard, blood red, thinning to pink

until letting go and falling into the night.

Still

you lay next to the name of your Father on his burial ground.

And he’s there

in your heart and mind

and in your pockets where you warm your fingers

as I feel my Dad

see him winking at me from a distant star that has slipped into the sky.

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