Robert Fulton Laird

Mid October

It was mid October
when I handed her a poem
thinking, she’d not read it anyway

Then, that month was over
and I hadn’t seen her since
assuming, that she probably had it made

Then, came late November, when, in all her beauty
I’d handed her another one named “She”
that I had slowly written, nearing end October
not knowing in the next month, where it’d be

I then received a message, sort of bitter sweet
thanking, that I’d touched her spirit sure
at a time when it was needed, though just ink on paper
for a problem that she thought there was no cure

I could never tell her that, the beauty that I saw
was nothing like reminded her each day
but, something from just knowing
although outside when raining,
above the clouds, the sun’s not far away

Then did come December, when I wrote her this letter
closer to her than, if she’d not see
this paper, like her father, still bright despite the weather
no matter how she’s feeling far from me

I shall not forget her, as much as she did share
a heart for knowing me not very long
in return, I hear her father; somehow behind my writing
comforting, like poetry outlives a song

For she is but a spirit, more than what her body
all along has led her to believe…
and always with her dad, though to him she’s still his baby
ever more, way past a new years eve

And although she’s not ready, to learn what he is teaching
of feeling more and seeing less, here on
I know she’ll be protected, by all those close around her
as she will do for them, when she is gone.

(Written for my friend *Anna, to try and comfort her through the holidays.)

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