While Anne-Marie is fulfilling her life long dream of penning the greatest of works, she has honored me by asking me to guest blog for her. This is a first for me, and although tempted to try and find some long forgotten work no one has seen before, I thought I would attempt something fresh and new, so there you have it or rather, here you have it.
Charles is a friend of mine, single dad, who lost two children in a fire in the winter of 1996, in their home in Northwest Arkansas. This is what he shared with me happened the following November, in the valley, it’s what I now share with you. – Daniel
Charlie dons the valley, like a coat of sunset colors, as he sinks into spring waters past his knees. Above him climbs the maple, in November where his Able, thought his first look at the stars helped him believe. Charlie stares at water, that is colder than hells hotter, and he bends a little closer just to see. Was it just this summer that he moved into the meadow, where the tall grass met the stones that bore two names. Was it just the ghost of fire that came down from the hollow, was it grief delirium, was he insane?
That was just a skimmer, swimming through light growing dimmer, as he sits up in the water to his waist. From the leafless bustle in the maple comes a rustle, and he looks up, as if he hears his name. Airless for his trouble, as his eyes close to the struggle of the pictures that his Shaland drew that day. Daddy, I am near you, when you’re eating your cold dinner, when you’re not in the valley, when you’re away.
Charlie stares at dead land, cross the meadow grayer, colder like disease. Hattie’s woods are glowing, cross the bottom, ghost are showing, children moving in degrees. Up the valley stands a chimney, ravens flying, waters cold as it slips beneath his sleeves. Able stirring, his hair moving, summoning the November breeze. Shaland flying, moving dead grass, her essence, beckoning creations relief. Charlie screams into the water, crying louder no more please.
Death cannot make death go away, winter storms do not hold fire at bay, when the kingdom sums, a child’s breath does succumb, not one but two a valley view, cannot control this man of grief this day.
Charlie of the valley, less his children in the vale, bones melted as they fell.
His head slips in the stream, what darkness love can bring, he floats beneath, to end the final day.
Charlie dons the valley, moving water, moving water, and she blesses him with the parting of the waves. He reaches for someone, two arms glow like the sun, the judged of man, has risen from his grave. Charlie walks the valley, Hattie’s woods upon the border, watching ghost so full of order come to play. Able moves his way, Shaland wants to stay, their arms still wet, they smile and fade to grey.
Charlie dons the valley, like a coat of sunset colors, as he moves into his life from dusk to day. – דָּנִיֵּאל
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