In a faraway city in the mountains, monsoon
rains descend and it is soft typewriter sounds
on the roof all day and all night, rain
and fog all month; not a sliver of sun
returned, in a carriage or otherwise. Dark
pink bougainvillea blossoms give up
and plaster themselves closer to the wall.
Crevices flourish with signatures of moss.
They might not know it, but even they
have stories to tell. All is elegy,
departing or gone; incessant rain,
language the earth understands.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
A WRITER’S CRAFT
Even the crevices will be covered with moss,
and grass before it. Cracks on these memorials
are stories told and retold where burial grounds
are salons of the lingering undead, memory
hounds like incessant rain. Nothing is ever lost.
Only elegies stay, a language of remembrance
for all who would care anyway. Like tombs,
they have embellished narratives of kindness,
gentleness, rectitude, abiding flames of love.
Like Taj Mahal, these remain unextinguished.
Stones or pillars, marble markers, or epitaphs
recall these lost lives and loves from crevices
covered with moss and grass before it, but all
will sprout from mute and scorched earth
like words cranked out of pain in an empty heart.
— Albert B. Casuga
10-14-11
“Writer’s Craft” is also reposted in my blog: http//albertbcasuga.blogspot.com/2011/10/writers-craft.html and in Facebook.
http://albertbcasuga.blogspot.com/2011/10/writers-craft.html