On the Second Anniversary of His Death
for Ben
His white and blue hat
sailors salute on the submarine
sits on the glass hutch
beside the empty urn.
In the windowsill,
a spider on stilts
spins a web that snares
a buzzing bumblebee.
Outside, a Sonoran toad
weeps and wails as rain
washes him from his
underground bunker.
When the sun smiles,
bald baby eagles
chirp from their nest
in the Saguaro Cactus.
*
Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist who lives in Arizona. She has published several poetry books including My Grandmother Smokes Chesterfields (Flutter Press 2014,) What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say and Trials & Tribulations of Sports Bob (Kelsay Books 2021) and Survivors, Saints and Sinners (Cyberwit 2022) Kiddos & Mamas Do the Darndest Things (Cyberwit 2022) and The Vultures are Circling (Cyberwit 2023) and has two collections forthcoming: The Leading Ladies in My Life (Cyberwit June 2023) and My Grandfather is a Cowboy (Cyberwit January 2024.) Her work has also appeared in more than 50 different journals. She is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Journal, dedicated to promoting narrative poetry.
Beautifully done, poignant but detached so as not to be maudlin, just right. Ben would be proud of his mum.
Tender and profound, this poem hit exactly the right note for me. It honors, remembers, and inches past grief into something more lasting–love.