IN THE PURPLE BELL-FLOWERED HEATH DOWN BELOW

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When heroes
Die
Like mom and dad
Or the ones
Who are made of the
Fabric of myths
They do not leave quietly.
They 
Exit
With a sudden detonation of
exclamation points
Which are really
rockets
Heading
for
The downy cloud banks of
Elysium
Whose payloads
Are
Checked-off
To-do lists of
selfless accomplishments
That only the bravest
Of grown-ups
Could have achieved

And just like you
Standing
In the purple 
Bell-flowered 
heath
Down Below
Watching
I become a
Child 
vanquished
By desertion
Left alone
At such a tender age
With little guidance
To figure out
Why the 
Single
Greatest
Loves of our lives
Almost always
Suddenly 
Leave

Without even
Asking for us
To come.

It takes a lifetime
To realize that 
They did.

We just
Didn’t hear
Their invitations
Because we were
Crying too loud.

Which you discover
One late in life day
Perhaps in winter,
While the fire snaps and pops
And your open book
Sits in your lap
Like a contented cat,
That
You have 
Been speaking
To them
Non-stop
In the consecrated
Shadows of
Your house
For years

Knowing 
In the way that you know God
That they have 
Never stopped
Listening.

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