Dust on days

What is it about an orphan that is stunned to find a place of belonging and so much more stunned to lose it that life is weak and breath desperate? We cannot know. We refuse to know any person so alone.

So orphans go. A few luckily kept. Some to war. Many to arguing. And many a star not lit among our blind blue sky. Old is same. Weakening and age takes as much as nothing given and never loved. Orphans and elders is what we say are alike. Skirts on a bird. Pants on a whale. Dust on days.

What is it a dead spouse leaves? Would you say something stupid like life’s lessons? That’s a trite error because marriage isn’t trite. Awhile together is enough to paint our inside, twist our frame, pace our journey, and fuse our view. Awhile alone is enough to wash us bare, bend us more, erase our deeds, and blind our hope. A remaining spouse is another orphan, another old coot. Soot. Dust.

What is it not orphans, not old, not left behind, want so much they forget orphans, old, and left behind? Perhaps wanting belonging. Yes, belonging too.