The days are comfortable while the night closes in. I walk in sun-blind mornings with crippling feet and a dizzy mind. I close the blinds against the approaching dark and remind myself to count our remaining blessings as autumn provides rich colours.
What remains of my parents is buried within my subconscious, opened by random impulses and photos shared by algorithms in memory programs. What remains of my parents is buried in a deserted graveyard, silent except for the gravestones, close to my mother’s girlhood place . And far away.
An Old Friend’s Gift Reminiscing through the weights of time releases mysteries: diverging paths shadow memories of collective beginnings leading to splintered destinations.
“Old bone/ tunnel through which I came.”
– Margaret Atwood
Old woman in a blue dress stands in the sun, Stares at her grandmother’s old home And the ancient ferns, Wonders what it will be like to follow her.
I am the guardian Of other people’s treasures. Trapped into storing by ghosts I cling to. How do I untangle, Release these pieces Of their hopes Concretized?
Pervasive sadness wakes my nights & smothers my days. Nothing wrong except the news of the world, and circumstances.
Against the fecund spring with its greens and blossoms, the gravestones announce the coming winter freeze. The shortening days and path. are hidden in the dark. Little time left to claim joy. and just be.
Friendship Beauty assaults me, joy bounces into my hands, and my heart at the long-absent voice. Like the greening and blossoms of spring , joy embraces me, sings to me, grasps my hand. I hear and feel tenderness..
A poem I wrote many years ago.
I eat my time like honey drooling down unto my tongue. We live a stone's length - (name, birth-death) While inbetween we cram and crush such sweetness in
Years have a shape; they throb and ache: the daily step, the monthly debt. Mornings rise and afternoons serve - hidden tears and blazing joys. Wasted moments and Summers end, Autumns harvest and Winters task - the long lost times dissolve, dissipate and Springs secrete unburdened hope. Years have a shape and accumulate, seasons repeat and propagate the tears and joys that shape our lives, the days and memories we consecrate.
Sometimes the mirror moves showing me what I’d rather not see. Memories shift and reform revealing different stories, painfully clear now. We wear such narrow glasses spotlighting one version, blind to and blurring peripheral possibilities.