Michael,

You are a great creature of this earth.  I am so glad to spend time with a soul such as yours.  I have empathy for your pain, and brother, as I have known you, and the stories I have heard of your adventures, you have done nothing but bring happiness and strength to those around you.  Without the pain, there is no poetry; no meaning for life.

Soar through the valley of depression like a Hawk.

Peace,

Leland

 

 

March 1
5 am and  hard rain...... It lashes the tin roof and beats at the cabin door
The  day is miserable. so is the rest of the world .
  I got the call last night about 9 pm  that my brother lays  dying in some
urban hospital on Maryland's eastern  shore  and is not  expected to live
the week. He is alone  with no family
Feelings of guilt  and old tapes run through me like the  gutter of this
broken roof ; and I am sandbagging it  .
The rain beats like a drum and the sound is deafening
Mother  dead when 15 , Father removed    family scatters; we hit
the road; and he hit worse.
Sure he had breaks but never the eyes to see them
I am up and try to get a fire going .
Like his life the wood is damp and hard to light .
I coax it with some kindling pushing some shavings into corners of
possibility; then mothering it with the breath of life  until it shows some
promise .
Charlie never had that .
. A tiny flame leaps taking hold of the kindling in sharp conflagration
  it snaps alive and casts fantastic shadows about the darkened room;
chasing demons as it crackles to  life 
A sweet sensitive little boy my brother and I shared so much growing up;
protecting each other from the rain we knew was coming 
Now Its pouring buckets and I  am not there
I put a pot on and look out on this dreary day.
Before me  I see the Mississippi but can't see across .
Rain lashes the black river banks  with impunity
as dreadful torrents rip its waterline
Bad cards and busted luck and I think he just  wanted out 
but  the black bastard lets him twist in the wind
A netherworld of floating tree carcass slips by downstream
bringing with it  the dead  of winter;
Its snarling limbs are thick and black with slime
eager to pull down anything before it

Behind me ;cruel fog rises from the bog of forrest floor;
the earth groans in wetness and
little dark pools of useless mud .

I want answers ;and have no answers
I want to scream but have no voice
A trackless trail awaits before me
I gather my things and prepare for the long ride home that then begins
the  journey I don't want to make.
Half of a state away my 8 yr. old daughter calls and says  "Daddy I want
you home".
...tears flood my eyes for my love for her and her mother ;
I cradle the phone and assure her "IM coming home baby"
  ...........I "m coming home .
Michael




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