Apple blossoms, unfurled, then scattered in the May storms.
No sadness there—
only poignancy when the buds first appeared.
That feeling is often now,
especially in the day-to-day business.
the transparent leaves permitted light,
were chartreuse and effervescent ,
now they are hard green—opaque.
Spring is mostly gone—so quickly, as always.
Even before memory holds the illusion.
A friend died this Spring,
stepping from his shower as usual.
This last time forever,
falling unconscious into the void.
We remember his faults as strengths and his subtleties as heart.
My mother sleeps most of the day,
the same as dreams
are forgotten while awake,
are forgotten while asleep.
I called and said: “Happy Memorial Day.”
“Cousin Shirley and her grandchildren do the stones now.”
She said, “Oh, I was sleeping.” “Is it that time again?” “That’s nice.”
“I woke you!.” “Go back to sleep and have sweet dreams.”
She won’t know if that was a dream or not.
Love won’t remind her.
My Dad has been with the physics of energy
for a few years now—-
theoretical and string equations,
the esoteria of Tibetan secrets,
the depths of music and
the mysteries of poets.
Is truth conscious?
We once read Carl Sagan together looking for clues
to consciousness in the right brain,
but were chained to the radial reasoning of intellectual gypsies.
Only he, between us, knows the truth now.
And the truth has no meaning ‘there‘.
I’d put wild flowers on his marker,
but the priests won’t allow it.
His exclusive rest has restrictions
concerning unplanned vulgarity or
emotional excess of a public kind, anyway.
It was tempting to snitch a posy from the altar but,
precisely because it’s a small gesture I move on.
Religion is rarely right about spiritual matters.
He might agree that his blessed sacrament is ‘homeless.’
His real memorials are the lives of his sons
who know how fiercely he loved life, and
the gifts he brought to it and them.
He gave me my first taste of vintage Chambertin,
setting the standard in all future appreciations of the exquisite.
Birthday specials were Shrimp Newburg,
and a mother’s devil’s food cake still hot with sweet butter and whipped cream.
Life is very hard,
those moments were deliciously soft.
They knew then—-those two creators,
and cushioned the blow.
It shows in that baby picture,—-
tow-headed, wild eyed on the Summer emerald lawn:
Irish, magical fairy, madly waving my arms
doing second-position in white diaper and tot shoes,
Dancing—-‘round and ‘round, laughing with delight.
Joy was power in my child‘s heart.
I call inward every now and then,
Particularly when weeding,
and especially when in the garden
with my life’s best, one companion—-
digging-in sweet tomatoes,
and vision their winter's promise of nourishment
in sauces, stews and pungent delight,
sun-dried with Balsamic
and olive oil in salads and omelets.
Conditioned habit of a lost habit I suppose,
I reflexly, embarrassingly, petition now and then ‘up’ to…..
If only? Would you? Could it be? Just this once? Are you there?
Then chuckle at the always silence.
I know better.
Heaven’s an indifferent holy virgin
and a stick to the donkey.
God’s an acrid smoke best found in abandoned ruins,
answering with cries and pain.
I’ve yet to know that Eden was a real or true garden.
The ‘Tales of Genji’ says that even the most noble life passes
like the ‘tattered edge of a passing cloud.’
Even to ancient sensibility dappled light
becomes shadow quickly, and then light again.
Over and over and over
clouds appear and disappear.
True freedom sings mute—lives fully,
far more expansive than its container.
What an adventure!
I personally hope to go—- near the mulch pile
and will finally know my fate in a future garden—
my own taste in a future tomato.
Now, that’s communion!