For Seamus Heaney RIP

So Labor Day Weekend begins! Where will you be? I’m excited to do…very, very little. Laziness is a 21st century luxury. 

On a more serious note: Seamus Heaney died from illness today. I loved his poetry, and so this poem was born.

You died today.
I met you, once,
my hangover
aching 
just above my eyes
as I gulped thin coffee, praying
for my body’s forgiveness.
You rested
on the kitchen table, coy
and silent.
I read you and
fell for your bitter 
sweetness,
perfect for bright 
mornings, love’s lance
and whiskey
biting the tongue. 

And now you’re gone,
leaving only words
and spaces.
Could we sit by Galway
Bay, discussing important
nothings:
How light hits the water
and children laugh 
through broken teeth? No
longer. My mind 
replays your Irish accent,
my ego wonders: 
what you would think of my 
words, my need for a 
nod or a 
smile?

These questions are foolish:
The reaper stole your
tongue.
My question
mark hangs, waiting for a period
that will never come.

What will you be doing this weekend? Writing/making anything fun? Let me know!

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