This morning I did some yoga with my friend, Andrea. With her, the process of breathing the silence of self led me back to poetry, to the quiet between words that allows me relaxation and thinking time. To writing in poem.
The ending in this poem surprised me. I thought that when Abe’s arms reached out to me, I would return home to where I am actually living, but then the ground swelled up – with the connotation that I was going “home” (to the grave with him), certainly not a conscious thought. Perhaps other widows and widowers, and grievers in general, contain such feeling somewhere in their beings.