Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself
like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.
by Barbara Crooker
Do not remember if I have posted this poem before; it was shared with me earlier this year and it seems apropos as yet another death notice drifted into my inbox. One of my high school teachers suddenly died this week. This is the third unexpected death in six weeks in my realm of friends. Hope that completes the axiom that bad things come in threes.
I will write a proper eulogy later; still searching for the words to share.
All Saints. All Souls.
The last shot reminds me of Iceland; at Christmas the towns decorate the graves in much the same way, so that they, too, twinkle and shine with Christmas lights and votives. No one apparently is ever left out.
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry to hear that another friend has passed away. It's such a strange year for losses; I'm still rattled about Jason (Karin's husband) - but another baby was born to an acquaintance, so the wheel keeps turning...
Perhaps the World Ends Here
ReplyDeleteBy Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.