In a long, life. – well lived, there will always be grief…
(With thanks, as always, to R. Frost)
I know how Hester must have stood,
Branded with shamed ignominy,
And why she took to the woods.
Public humiliation can be hard
To take, but on the other hand,
I have found sympathetic friends
And shared my woes with them:
“I didn’t expect to see YOU here!”
“Well you can leave if you want to!”
Their laughter dissolved my embarrassment.
I now can tell myself, “Get over it!”
(3/30/14)
LEARNING HOW TO LET GO
The child’s umbilical cord
Is the first binding tie
Which has to be broken.
And then our nurslings must
Be weaned from the breast.
Nestlings have to learn to fly.
The yellow school buses
Take them from our doors.
We share an empty house
With an aging partner or spouse,
Who one day is no more.
Comrades wave their goodbyes.
We all go on our ways,
Turning into memories.
So let us raise a parting glass
To all the loved ones of our pasts.
MIXED BLESSING
Driving up, I heard and saw water
Pouring from a pipe above the door
Down the wall and onto the walk,
Flooding over the threshold and
Saturating the new floor mat.
Some welcome! was my first thought.
Here I am on my first overnight
In what was to be a snug retreat,
A refuge from the work of pain….
But all was not lost. The plumbers
Shut off the flow and I
Mopped the floor and hung the rug to dry.
I poured myself a glass of wine,
Nuked the soup and veggie pizza,
Turned on the lamps, sat down and
Drank a toast to new beginnings
Feeling somehow strangely blessed
By this most improbable baptism.
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION
I have to learn to sleep alone.
With fleece sheets to keep me warm,
Burrowing into my memory foam ,
I do my best to sleep alone.
Curled around his broader form
I felt his heart beat like my own.
Now I must learn to sleep alone.
For all the lonely nights to come
We must be two: I must be one.
I have to learn to sleep alone.
(January 1, 2014)
Unruffled sheets on half the bed
Manure and compost piles unspread
No woodchips on upholstered chairs
No wads of mud on cellar stairs
A pair of running shoes unfilled,
The ergometer counter stilled
Computer monitor unscribed,
Animal carvings undefined
The silent eight-day clock unwound,
No need to ring the dinner gong
No answer to the office phone,
A truck with no commute from home
The waxplant tolls its heavy blooms
Their midnight scent invaded the rooms.