Then what you said missed me, continued on, became an echo took on distance, like distance on the map of the world we have on the family room wall, so much distance that it crossed borders and bodies of water, it spoke in various languages, impossible for me to translate. What you said traveled off into space, passed planets and moons, discovered worlds of words, all spoken but missed by the person who should have heard them. What you said took off into time – days, weeks months, centuries, whole ages of time, eons plus. What you said missed me and became everything it was capable of, became the opening and closing, first and last words said to anyone in the space we’re allotted. They were important but somehow I missed them. //////// J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Kitchen Sink, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, and Highland Park Poetry.
Lightwood 