Like pencil
pressed hard,
writ large,
then hastily
erased,
so is your hand
in my book.
My eyes scan
seeing no
gray lines
or curves
of script,
and then
I panic
But when all is lost,
my hand slides
under page,
fingers find those grooves,
that prove you are still
in life.
I smile,
wipe tears,
trudge on.
Will, I think this is your most powerful poem. I came back to it last week and "saw" what you were doing here. It knocked the wind out of me and I've been thinking of it ever since. It's the best illustration of grief I've ever seen.
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