I just finished reading "The Year Of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion. She writes of her first year as a widow after her husband of 40 years dies suddenly. In the midst of that fog like state that we know all too well, their only daughter spends most of the year in ICU.
I have thought of a poem in passing the past eight months but never sat down to read it or actually find it. Joan did that for me. It fits both of our situations, although I must admit, I cannot imagine what Didion is going through now. Less than 2 years after her husband died, her only child died as well. While I must clarify that mom, Asa and Valentina keep me going, there are times when I feel exactly like this poem.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.