Within your comfortable solitude,
the mournful cry of the loon
heard from the opposite shore
serves up a taste of loneliness.
Not the same as solitude,
but still, you think about it.
How it might be
if she dies first.
© 2026 Richard Havenga
You could read the anguish
in their empty eyes.
The stabbing pain of grief
penetrated deep into their hearts.
They felt abandoned and alone
in a barren desert,
deserted by the death of a loved one.
For years
of pointless days
and vacuous nights,
the inexplicable loss
lingered on the edge
of their depleted lives
as they carried the burden
of a suffering love.
But eventually,
with the gentle
passage of time,
fortified by their faith,
by the comfort and support
of family and friends,
their hollow hearts
were filled with the peace
of understanding and acceptance.
© 2023 Richard Havenga
Photo Locations: Mud Matters Studio ~ Kimberlee Matheny ~ Ceramic Artist
Are you still
filling that space
between birth and death?
Taking enough time
to embrace
the unique gifts of nature?
Walking on paths
not paved or cemented,
but soft as leaves on soil?
Reading more books
rather than
staring at screens?
Traveling to
those national parks
you've always wanted to see?
Have you learned
how to fall in love
with this time you were given?
© 2022 Richard Havenga
Photo Locations:
1. & 2. Townsend Park - Kent County - Michigan
3. Home Library
4. Glacier National Park - Montana
5. Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery - San Diego, California
A fresh morning breeze strokes
the slender fingers of willows.
They undulate vertically
above the small pond.
They return old memories
of my twelve-year-old self,
when I expertly climbed
their thick, spreading limbs;
seeking refuge and solitude
in a secret, higher place
to think about important matters:
like the death of my grandpa,
and how high above the blue sky
heaven might be,
and if he can hear me
from up here.
© 2022 Richard Havenga
Photo Locations:
1. Cascade, Michigan
2. Thornapple River - Ada Dam - Kent County - Michigan
3. Blythefield Memory Gardens - Kent County - Michigan
I've carried nineteen years of memories
for twenty-eight years.
Counting his beginning steps at six months,
then, as a toddler, his trusting little hand
holding my finger as we walked outside together.
Playing in Lake Michigan
at four years old.
Soothing his hurts from early spills
on his bike at six years.
Estimating the length of the bass we caught
in the Grand River when he was fourteen.
Worrying the hours while waiting for him
to return home; driving at sixteen.
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Timing the miles during Forest Hills Central
Track and Cross Country meets at seventeen.
Calculating his climbs while hiking with Ross Peterson
on the Appalachian Trail at eighteen.
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Crying the tears over his death
in November of nineteen ninety-four.
Saying the prayers at his gravestone
when I'm forty-six, or seventy-four.
Carrying years of memories up the slopes;
memories as permanent as mountains.
© 2022 Richard Havenga
End Note:
This year Aaron would be 47. Born on April 2, 1975.
I was 46 when he died at age 19, on November 20, 1994.
Photo Locations:
1. First Home - Cascade, Michigan - Photo by Mary Havenga
2. Lake Michigan - Charles Mears State Park - Pentwater, Michigan
3. Mom & Dad's Farm - Ada, Michigan
4. East Grand Rapids
5. Appalachian Trail National Park - Photo by Ross Peterson
6. West Elk National Wilderness Area - Colorado
