He Taught Us to Use “Joy” Wisely
for William F. Yachymiak
The sun melts in a dark,
dry sky. The prairie
stretches deep to drink.
Trees breathe in a wicked
heat. Cicadas buzz. Redwings
chit. At last, a night breeze
cools my sweat.
The week he died,
a rare storm blew. Gusts
knocked loose the leaves
and twigs, testing roots
of old oak trees. Tornadoes
swept up bins and sheds
and pitched them
into ditches. Fists of hail
beat down the corn,
daring it to rise.
Then came the rain.
It bounced off parched
and hardened clay, and puddled
in our deep despair. It washed
our lifted, searching eyes,
and drenched our holey shirts
and hair. It dripped mud rivers
down our arms, and dropped
off ends of calloused hands.
The rain poured down upon us
all, a soothing sound of kind, cool
streams, like waterfalls, like love
released, a hug, a dream
there at our feet. His lessons
now just soaking in,
his unlived life now crying out
to love the ones we wish
to love, unabashed and unafraid,
to shimmer with a boundless joy
that he could never know.
–Suzan Erem