On the edge of lips that kiss and coo,
medicine is made.
I’m far less than half a saint,
my grief, anger and frustration,
levying penny taxes on us all from time to time.
The scrapes I make are never too deep,
even a glance from love will do,
but in the mending we weave ourselves back into each other,\
and the world.
This morning Dog and I ran in shallow spring snow,
a gravel trail written out by her calloused winter paws.
This is how the world mends me -
a day conjured of dog-magic,
singing through the puff of a widower’s breath,
inviting me always
to say yes,
and again yes,
to all that I have been given,
and all that has been taken.
I’ve needed to mend the hand sewn quilt
made by a mother who is gone,
letting threads that reach from here into the next world
guide me.
That’s how I learned to become a Father who mends.
