Behind those children playing,
I see a grandmother smiling;
she remembers
the blur of children’s play
but it’s not that memory,
it’s their place in her heart.
These moments of happiness:
she has seen them before,
knows the thin bone china
they’re made of;
her smiles are carefree
as the children
but are of this moment;
she has lived through many years.
How impressive the ladder looks from the bottom,
disappearing, as it does, into the clouds.
How those rungs invite;
how everyone encourages you to climb,
so you do.
And all the way up: yes, up, up, up
and, at the top, no more rungs:
space, just space;
they invited you to climb to a space.
Perhaps, I think, this may be Heaven;
maybe, set my molecules free
to wander through Heaven.
Perhaps, the thought is Heaven;
perhaps such a moment is eternity.
Like earthworms,
like the carcasses of all animals,
we darken the soil,
enrich it.
In their turn,
our children will rise,
live in the sun
till they, too, revert to humus.
Our gift to them,
to those coming ‒ grandchildren,
great grandchildren:
a poisoned, decaying earth
and, as a tree nourishes its fruit,
this earth must feed its children
all that has collected around roots,
all that is unseen in water.
You see it in his eyes.
He drowns it in incessant yap,
conceals it behind constant activity;
answers nothing,
but is forever asking questions,
filling his life with places and people;
always on vacation from himself.
His travels are to distraction.
Your hands, gentle,
resting in their usual place
on your lap,
listening to our conversation.
Fingers interwoven,
a basket for your thoughts,
the shape of caring,
the warm nest you made.
How wise those hands,
saying nothing
but alert in contemplation
and ready, always, to open.
 |
| Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, Caspar David Friedrich |
Climb to the summit;
come closer to your soul.
