Bed of Moss (Memento Mori)

May I stay awhile with you,
as you lay upon that bed of moss?
Picture frame of a decades' rest
among the hush of the departed

(see, it will be just like that when you are dead)

I kneel, dappled with sun,
Tears and sweat my only choices
for caressing the stones, cleansing them
of desecration by leaf and mud
 
(you'll be over there, I'll be over here)

On the bad days, 
your silences louder than hell
On the good days, 
memories ringing of peace

(we just can't see each other)

Light Reading

A tribunal of candles sits atop the dresser, pale golden dancers washing the plaster walls with delicate light.  Their warmth, even in summer, a welcome addition and delight for the mind's palate.  Behind them to the left, tucked in the corner sits a small stack of books.  Journals, the handwritten relics excavated from a mind in search of its anchors.  The books glow in the light.

Shadows cling to the journals.  Profiles writ large on the wall behind them.  The pages themselves are orderly, but sport encrustations of tabs and sticky notes like bibliographic barnacles on bookish pilings.  The notes are but placeholders marking words, sentences, paragraphs that at some point in the past were deemed significant enough to warrant commemoration.  But in the now, they fringe of notes seems a reminder of thoughts unfinished, of tasks incomplete.  They have their own nostalgia.

The candle flames waver subtly in near undetectable currents in the close air of the room.  For a split-second it may have created the impression that ghosts walk in this room.  The notion does not seem so far-fetched.  After all, the journals tell true stories about bearing witness to spirits that were not for this world.  The tomes contain passages describing what it is like to have traveled out of the body and brought back sights and sounds and memories of love and pain from the other side of the astral glass.

The shadows dance gracefully around the journals.  They shimmy with a sensuality all their own.  Contemplating them thusly it is not outside of the realm of possibility that the shadows themselves are their own stories.  New tales from the heart whispered softly and with deep respect for the past from which they grew.  It is the candles that have brought out this quality, this idea of stories as entities existing in light.  The eye watches the flames move.  The mind considers the physics and optics involved.  The heart follows the shadows and calls out for a new epic of love, to be written in the edges between light and dark

Magpie Tales 63: Kaleidoheart

Courtesy of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales

A toy, really, I know,

but so much different

for it to be what I saw

when I looked through

the shattered glass

she left me in place

of the heart I once knew, 

long ago and far away

the boy I was

offering a broken plaything

to the man I had become,

learning so swift a lesson 

harsh and edges of razors,

liquid eyes diffracting to see

through the granular pain,

that beauty remains at the core

Little Acorns

A finer scene I am unsure I could have made up, playing out on the couch in my living-dining room combo space, as the Wee Lass and I sat side by side on a fine Sunday morning.  It is that special time of year for those of us who are, or like to pretend they are, gardeners what can grow the good stuff.

You know what I'm talking about: that is right, the seed catalogs are here!  You remember that scene in "The Jerk" when the new phone books arrive?  Yeah, that's what it is like.  This year, anyway.

I get two seed catalogs* from major suppliers, and I look forward to perusing them at my leisure in the depths of winter.  Now that the Lass is a little older and enjoys plants and flowers, we have started what looks to be an annual tradition of our own.  When the seed catalogs arrive, she and I set aside some time to leaf (leaf: get it? ha!) through them to pick out stuff to grow in the spring and summer.

Our interests are complementary in that I am drawn strongly to the Things That Are Good To Eat, and she is drawn to the Things That Make Pretty Flowers/Have Pretty Names.  I like flowers too, but can't help the appetite.  If I can find something that looks great and produces tasty stuff, well that is just double plus good for me.  The Wee Lass is on a pink kick, and she is drawn like a bee to the flowers that do just that.  She also likes big showy ones like sunflowers and marigolds.

So this past Sunday morning, we parked ourselves on the couch, catalogs in hand and sticky note tabs at the ready.  I had some music playing, streaming on the laptop, mug of tea nearby.  She snuggled up to me and we set to.  

Fruits and vegetables came first, followed by the flowers.  As we made our way through the peppers and tomatoes, impatiens and sunflowers, Wee Lass carefully wrote our first initial followed by either 'V' for vegetable or 'F' for flower on each tab, and we affixed the note to each seed we liked.  In the end of course,  we ended up with far more selections than we could possibly manage, but it sure was great fun.

This year was extra special, because of what happened as we searched and marked.  Shortly after we started, I noticed Wee Lass bobbing and moving to the music.  It was either "The Long Cut" or "Chickamauga" off of the Anodyne album by Uncle Tupelo.  She seemed to really be getting into it, and I was amazed.  I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make her self-conscious about it.  A short while later, the song "We've Been Had" came on, and she started a little seat dancing.  I couldn't help but grin and laugh, and I asked if she liked this music.  She said yes, and wanted to know the title of the song and who it was by.  She kept it up into the next song, "Fifteen Keys", and I thought my heart was going to overflow, it was so full.

It felt so good sitting there in the sunlight bouncing from her bedroom windows and into the living room, sharing some things I care about with the vein of my heart, and basking in the wonder and joy of her discoveries.  We have something we can grow together, literally and figuratively.  We will plant some seeds later in the early spring, and maybe learn some new songs along the way as well.

We will grow together, and sing the joy of sunlight and music.  We will know love.

---

*Fedco and Burpee.  I am not receiving compensation of any kind from either company, I just like them.  I have had great success with Fedco seeds (love their catalog in particular) and I even have a cool Fedco shirt.  Burpee was my late G-maw's seed purveyor of choice.  When I was a boy I avidly looked forward to reading the catalogs when they arrived at her house.

Winter Poetry Slam: Patuxent River Meditation #1

Breath fogging the glass,
Her name, mist before the sun
Heart contracts, shatters

Arctic Summer

Every morning at drop-off
those rose window eyes turn
to his, he falls to the floor
in front of the altar

Every morning the angel says
"I love you" in a silver-spun whisper
he barely hears sometimes
because the sun has just risen in his face

Every morning he says "I love you, too"
through throat tight with tears on a leash
knowing awareness for precious moments
mayfly in a hyperborean landscape

Every morning, walking out the door
chill descending on his heart
he prays the sun will rise again
bathing him in the gold of an arctic summer

Monday Sunshine: Haiku

Cold breath, crescent moon

Leaves drifting down, heart slowing,

warm, dreaming of you.

Every Little Sparrow Fallen

The death of little creatures is always shocking, no matter the time of day. Death becomes an obscenity in the silver and azure light of a perfect Sunday morning. The body was there, tiny, purplish and fringed with feathers like smoke. It lay nearly in the center of the path. The poor thing insulted by the assault of a gang of flies, nasty hooligans desecrating the memory of the departed, knocking over gravestones and despoiling flowers.

My breath caught in my throat. My left foot hesitated while I performed a stutter step to avoid trampling the body. My stomach lurched at the thought and I was grateful that I had seen it in enough time to avoid such a travesty. I heaved a deep sigh to lessen the pang of sorrow I felt balling up in my gut. I muttered to myself “It’s just a bird”, feeling a little foolish at my reaction. It is the way of the world that even the innocent, the fragile, the beautiful, cannot escape the brutality of death in the morning sun.

Walking and breathing in the perfect air and sunlight, I quickly put distance between myself and the little cairn of sadness that was the baby bird. The weather was perfect and the path around the lake was busy with people out for exercise and relaxation. The recent heavy rains had filled the lake up to brimming, and the greenery was lush and bursting with moisture. Out on the lake, the geese swam around in the lily pads. The starbursts of the lilies standing out brilliant white against the lime-greeniness of the lily pads. I was breathing deep of the air and slowly, slowly the clock spring in my belly began to unwind. It was, I told myself, a beautiful day.

Continuing on around the lake, I bathed in the glory of the light, the breeze, and the melodies of the birds carrying on in the trees. The simple act of walking just felt so good, it seemed impossible that anyone could remain in a funk. That was what I told myself, and I reckoned it was good enough to get me around to the other side of the lake.

Another third of a mile and I was across the first bridge, ambling along the flat part of the trail before it starts to wind itself up and down some gentle inclines on the north side. It is quieter here. Quieter in the sense that generally speaking there are fewer people on that side of the lake. The trees and the undergrowth are thicker. The atmosphere is closer, cooler, greener. It was as I worked my way up the first incline, under trees leaning in overhead, that the tears started.

One moment, at peace. The next, crying softly to myself. It was a complete surprise.

The trigger was a bird call. There was a sparrow or a finch, I really don’t know because I couldn’t see it. It was somewhere among the leaves singing its heart out. The image of the dead baby bird flashed in my mind, I was overwhelmed by a wave of sadness for it. I ran my hand across my face and sternly told myself to quit being so maudlin. It was just a bird, an unlucky little bird in a harsh universe. I snapped out of it and moved on.

Another hill, another birdsong, and another gout of tears. The image of the baby bird wouldn’t leave my head. What in the world was going on? It was going to be a hard slog the rest of the walk if I could not overcome the small sadness of that bird. Except for size, it was no different than the road kill deer I had seen earlier, another hapless victim. I shook my head desperately as if that would fling the images out of my mind. Walking faster also added some much needed distraction.

Crossing the second bridge, the “arboretum” lay just ahead. One of my favorite spots on the trail, it is a long, narrow stand of trees, of nearly all the same species. The path curves up from the bridge and elbows into a straight shot to the other end of the grove. The trees are all slender and tall. The branches high above curve out slightly, lending a nave-like feeling to the space beneath the trunks. The sun shone through the leaves, to dapple the path in spots of gold tinged with emeralds. I smiled slightly and took a deep breath of the sweet air as I entered the arboretum.

It was then a jagged chunk of memory fell from the sky, filtering through the leaves to land with excruciating agony on my head and shoulders. I stumbled and fell…

…into night, in the hospital, July of 2003. I was sitting in a chair in a room without windows. The sounds of sobbing reverberated in the small space. Nearby sat my wife, weeping. Her parents sat on a small couch, tissues in hand and heads bowed. I realized abruptly that much of the sobbing was coming from me. I had been weeping for some time, and showed no signs of stopping. Not anytime soon. I looked down.

The weight in my arms came clear. Inches from my red and swollen eyes were the tiny, pink face of my first born daughter. Her eyes were shut, never to open again. I could see the faint traces of the medical brutalities that had been administered in a heroic but ultimately futile attempt to save her life. I remembering gasping, my heart caving in on itself, writhing like a worm on a hook. I furiously tried to blink away the tears, her visage swimming in and out of focus. Her feathery body was threatening to escape my arms and float away, borne on a wind of misfortune.

Our darling little bird. She had been born too early to leave the nest. Overtaken by a life started much too early, and too frail to fight off the worst the universe had to offer. A feathery pink-purple angel swaddled in clothes she was never meant to wear. Amidst the sounds of broken hearts, I caressed her cool cheek and begged God to let the bird sing, if even for a little while longer…

Sharp white sunlight filled my eyes with stars, ethereal spangles floating in a film of hot liquid saltiness. Stepping from the shadows of the arboretum and into the sun was a small shock, like getting hit with a bucket of warm water after a cool bath. I found myself walking slowly down the path and breathing as if sipping the air. I could not recall having walked through the trees, but there I was, in a daze and blinking as if I had seen a ghost.

Which I suppose was true in some way.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, struggling to regain my composure. Somewhere up ahead, another bird trilled a love song of my memory. I reached out my hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun. I could not see the source of the warbling.

But in my heart, another bird echoed the song, an exquisite duet. I moved forward into the cerulean embrace of a lovely Sunday morning, satisfied that God hears every little sparrow that falls.

I know I do.

------

Many thanks to Flux Capacitor for additional synchronicity. Go here for enlightenment and perspective. Thank you, Maggie May; may you find peace.

Love Radiator

26 July 2003

2:30 pm: He had a good day today.
Arterial line removed, may not need replacement. Good.
Blood gas checks will decrease, fewer heel sticks. Good.

It’s about 4:00 now, son, not that you really understand time right now. Or maybe you do, you just hve no way of telling us. I can’t tell sometimes, either. Really tired, and it messes with my sense of time. Good thing they have a lot of clocks in here, always easy to tell time. Although I wish the digits weren’t red. Red doesn’t soothe me, too active, and I’m anxious enough just walking through the door.

Sorry, son, I didn’t mean to ramble. I’m distracted, by fatigue and hunger and these damn headaches I keep getting. I’m distracted by the sight of you laying there, all small and pinkish and curled up on that pillow. The plastic cover almost disappears sometimes when I’m watching you. But it’s still there, as I keep forgetting when I reach out to touch you, only to knock my fingers against it. I hope the noise doesn’t bother you too much. Anyway, I meant to tell you about something else I feel when I come in here to look at you. Yeah, I’m nervous and tense, but I feel really good at the same time. Especially when I walk around the corner after having scrubbed my hands and arms, and can finally get to your side. Really good, a calmness that sort of spreads over me like wrapping myself in a warm towel, fresh from the dryer. The calm I get when I watch the sunrise, or geese swimming across a lake. And every time it happens, I look at you and I wonder, How do you do it?

3:30 pm?: Surgical consult. The doctor says he has a hernia.
A what? An inguinal hernia. Is that bad?
It needs repairing, soon, not now.
The NICU nurse says he can be circumcised at the same time.
Great. Just great.

When I asked how do you do it, I was wondering how you could make me feel so good, how you make it so I don’t want to leave this place. Not while you are here, anyway. Otherwise there is little to recommend it. All the machines, the blinking lights, the constant beeping. Lots of hand washing; I don’t think my hands and arms have ever been this clean in my life! It isn’t so bad when it is quiet in here, son. And by quiet, I mean less noisy, not noise free. The nurses and parents and doctors are in and out of here constantly. They have to be. But later in the day, and especially when regular visiting hours are over, there is a certain hush that comes over this place. I like those moments, my son. It is then I can pull my chair a little closer to you, rest my head on the isolette, and just look at you, meditate on you. With the lights down a little low, it’s like a shrine, with you at the heart of it. It draws me in, and I wondered, if we turned the lights off, would you throw off your own radiance?

8:20 pm: His oxygen is down slightly. Odd, but that is a good thing.
Nurse C. says he has been sleeping well.
He likes being on his belly, his crits are better when he does.
‘Gives sleeping like a baby’ a whole new meaning.

Radiance of an unearthly kind in the light shining on you, kiddo. It isn’t unearthly in a bad sense. Heavenly is the word I was looking for. You, a pink onyx figurine lit from within. It’s beautiful. No, let me rephrase, you are beautiful. Yours is a beauty terrible and wonderful to behold; I have no desire to be anywhere else. It is this light that fascinates me. I will not say I am the moth and you are the flame; that makes it sound dangerous or that I might get burned if I were to get too close. Really, I am not close enough, because I cannot hold you, at least not yet. This explains the pain in my arms, the ache of supporting a void not yet filled. Wait, was that a twitch, did your fingers just move? I put my hand in the isolette, quickly but softly, to brush your fingertips with mine. Little pink feathers. I breathe against the plastic and wonder, what is this strange attractor that draws me in?

9:10 pm?: Skin color has improved, not as much yellow.
Light therapy is helping, the mask protects his eyes.
The heart murmur detected earlier appears to have “resolved”.
Good. Avoiding surgery is good.

I know, son, I know. It came to me in a flash. The light that is you creates its own gravity that acts only on those of your blood. That must be it. This is the force that draws your mother and I back here, day after day, night after night. I can feel it when I am at home. I can feel it while I am making toast (one of the few things I can keep down these days), taking a shower, while trying to fall asleep. This ghostly tugging at my heart. Do you know what you have done, my son? You are a miracle of modern science! You are creating love at a distance. Imagine that! Your tiny body a pink loaf of bread with the density of a neutron star, sending out wave after wave of powerful love. The molecules of my heart resonate to your frequency and I find myself drawn back to you. This is a circuit I would never willingly abandon. How could I? This hospital room, this plastic shell that is your home, has become the chapel and shrine to which I make my daily pilgrimage. I come on my knees to bask in the presence of your love.

9:41 pm?: Final summary. Nurse C. tells me your kidneys and bowels are functioning.
Tomorrow we may actually be able to feed you. Feed you!
A tube and syringe with some mother’s milk and something else.
Better than nothing. The nurse asks if I am okay, chiding me gently.
She tells me to go home, sleep, and eat. The parents need care, too.

So I’ll leave you now. I am exhausted. Oh, before I go, here is a picture of your sister. The one with the ring. I thought you’d like that. We didn’t get one of you wearing it. Later, perhaps.

Good night.

……

I’ll be back, how could I not? I orbit the Sun, hungry for its light.