Valley of Dry Bones – redux

A poetic reflection on loss

Littered is the land of every life
with pale, dried bones…

of shattered dreams
scattered on the harsh terra firma
of reality’s unrepentant unyielding landing
of the predestined fall
of once-ascendant, though leaden wishes, and

of olden, long-serving, now uncurtained
(like Andersen’s emperor’s naked finery
or the Ozian sham-wizard unmasked),
uncertain beliefs,
bleached in the light of newfound, bosom-clutched,
though untested, unproven truths, and

of lost loves
(their images, frequent reveries of hungering memory)
some departed, crossing the threshold of death, beyond
to a life and land incorporeal and
others alive (yet, so long out of touch, out of reach?,
as unfleshed)
with whom no words exchange
either in doting recollection’s endearment
or in angered temperament
from that past-time of togetherness
that, sadly,
wrought little shared gain,
but mostly (only remembered?)
mutual pain.

When immersed in these reflections,
I hear the Voice of One who asked the prophet: “Can these bones live?”

My mind stymied,
my tongue stilled,
finally, I remember, rehearse, and repeat as the prophet replied:
“O Lord God, You know.”

Endnote: The Valley of Dry Bones (Ezekiel 37.1-14)