They are not there in the morning. I feel like I should be in mourning.
While the harvest of widow's weeds and flowers alike await their own ripening in another time, later.
Could it be said it would have been said. It wasn't. Said.
Creation cries hurricane tears. A gaping maw. . . violincello bowing double stops, strident. . . a thunderous tympani roll marks the knell. Lead us out of the grief arising from coincidal anniversaries that only have Caesar to thank for their synchronicity in a hell not of our own chosing.
Shut off the televisions that market the Twin Towers burning.
Like two bars of laundry soap. A product.
Silence. No more light.
Now. Let us emerge freshly awake into a morning of hopefulness and regeneration. Let's let the clock run out on the game that need no longer be played.
Friar (Rabbi-Mullah-Rimpoche-Guru) Lawrence: "I dare no longer stay!"
We must go. Forward. Those who cannot must stay behind. They are the dead. No longer the quick. Forth.
With God (or the Universe. . . or the All-Seeing-Eye) as our witness. We exist still.
RIP. Our bones will follow some day. We honor you.