For my Father and everyone who has lost someone they love. Grief has a remarkable knack for capturing us. It has no respect for time and place. It chose to visit me this morning while I was writing the newsletter.  

Sometimes I pause
In the still of the morning
With so much the day demands

I’m struck by a sound
Grass bent by breeze
The sight of my own hands

I remember his eyes
His turning of phrases
HIs grammar unsound

The sweat of his forehead
The breadth of his shoulders 
His boots on the ground

And I visit the ground
The land he once loved
The pastures I cherished

Strong in my memory 
They sprawl like a prairie
They stretch like a canvas

The Canvas is full
Of a life and its moments
Of a wife and her longings

The colors are fondness
The shapes are of children
Of cattle and wild things

He moves on this canvas
The shades are his motions
The moods are his labor

His smile is the sunshine
His heart holds the shadows
And God is his neighbor

The Master’s piece is finished
His strong hands now stilled
His breathing now ceased

I stare at the canvas
Straining for last looks
Listening for heartbeats

Through the lens of my tears
He turns, coming clear
And I hear him say “son…”

Then his voice falls silent
He blends back to The Canvas
And the day must move on

Hunter Smith
April 22nd, 2021

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