Epitaph

We are stilled by such tragedies

as we cannot comprehend. Those 

children in Russia, Virginia,

in Colorado. So many.

Nature, too, inflicts inertia.

Tsunamis, hurricanes and fires

deconstruct the careful longing,

our sure pretense of relevance,

leaving inadequate options:

to take comfort in words in which

there can be no comfort, to paint

our religions, coax them to life.

Mapmakers today understand

the world is made entirely 

of layers: air patterns, land and

watersheds, forest and roadways,

urban densities, also known

as towns and the people within.

Remove these layers and the earth

becomes almost invisible,

surely as it must have been when 

God laid the framework for first sin.

Are we to take heart knowing that

even He started over once?

It is easy to view the stars 

as souls, and if the stars then birds, 

some rivers. And if rivers we 

might be baptized in each other.

      The coffee mugs are always clean.

      The muddled bedroom is empty.

      God, after this grief, every 

      I love you feels like goodbye.

(c. 2009, Martin A. Bartels)