I see my life as phrases
for the holy and Hollywood word cry.
As a babe it was a method of sleep training.
'Cry it out'-until one is exhausted and not soothed.
In my teenage, rebel with a cause years,
it was 'cry foul!'
'Cry foul!' Against real or imagined wrongs.
The list is long-slavery, war, pestilence and famine
and the list goes on.
Those ideal less than ideal years
when there was 'crying for the moon'.

You were the 'cry of my heart!'
like a lion roaring, or a whisper outside of noise.
A sound like an exquisite whistle
to make all other sounds silent
like listening to a baby's heartbeat in the womb.
A beating heart heard over and above
the harsh cries of magpies outside.

Lamentable, my 'full cry'
now that you are no longer here to answer.
Baying in keen pursuit of shadows and shades.
You were my shadow, my constant companion.
Now you are a ghost, a portrait in silhouette.
A dark shape and mere outline
of someone I loved in the light.
Bringing forth nothing out of the ground
in the garden of forget-me-nots and regrets.

'Crying ones eyes out'
does not stop me from seeing you.