Figuring Out Life While Aging
I sing the song of aging
alone.
I sing a song of changes,
losses breeding bitter
births into
searches;
only a persistent tune carries
me.
I improvise new notes, with old
rhythms - composing
my present, creating this gift
as I allow my time to unwrap.
The glittering lake mirrors
the sun that faded
your young grin.
Is this peace or loss,
or simply the sun’s rotations
announcing changes?
The world’s surface shifts -
a kaleidoscope of constantly
burying and emerging stillnesses -
Glittering and storming times,
dark and morning lights,
red pains and quiet waves.
We wade watching
the swimming others
until we, too, drown.
There’s peace during and after
our time clasping hands
too tightly and not tightly enough.
The shadow of a bird
flicks over the
white seed globes of dandelions.
Seagulls criss-cross over
the undulating waters
and the air smells green.
Water slaps rock.
Birds chirp.
I am in the quiet.
Spring unveils herself first
from behind the curtain of winter
with small flashes
of colour: purple crocuses, yellow
daffodils, green sprouts,
the golding branches of willows.
The winter green of evergreens
is present always through
bare branches,
but now Spring drapes a pale
scarlet mist around a few trees
and bright greens clutch her limbs.
She teases, displaying swelling buds
as, on the ground, red tulips open,
then she flaunts her magnolias, and
wanton displays of pink blossoms,
white ones ripening, variegated
greens hiding branches.
Spring unveils herself
to the swelling sounds of birdsong,
through sunlight and rain,
through ducks and swans and flying geese,
through colours, growing touches and sounds -
warming her waiting, watching audience!
A Portuguese term, saudade, is a deep emotional state where love, absence, memory, and time intertwine. It is not about missing something you love. It is about something that continues to exist deeply within you even when it is physically far away,
I drive by ghosts on familiar streets,
their eyes downcast,
their hands pocketed,
their voices silent,
I see them blindly touch bare-branched trees,
ignoring the magnolia blossoms
and the electric green leafing
of trees celebrating
spring’s resurrections.
The rain pocks the windshield
as I look away,
steering past,
not calling their names.
They lived here but we’ve left that time;
the unevenly greening leaves and buds on bare branches
sing new paths, new stories,
and the brief glories of magnolia blossoms
speak of the ongoing joys of life.
Cross-posted at Substack – https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/saudade
After becoming alone
I had to shrink,
to downsize,
to let go, and
let go, and
let go into
a minimalism of
heart and being.
After becoming alone,
I had to discover,
(in the long numbing silence),
to uncover, and
discover again,
and re-discover
what joys
could now nourish me.
Crossposted at https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/after-becoming-alone
It’s spring and the spider
outside the window is back.
When I walk I see the couples
holding hands
while I pocket mine.
It’s spring and the couples
smile at each other.
When I enter my new home
I feel the silence
and walk again to the window.
I watch the outside spider
inside this trickster spring.
Who are you here? I ask
as I have no one
holding my hand.
Cross-posted at https://open.substack.com/pub/joanvinallcox/p/april-weavings?r=oj9j7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web which includes an audio version.
Grey-etched discarded snow
leaks into a muddied path
leading to a locked gate.
Water puddles on a frozen field
while behind a building
daffodil shoots whisper yellow hope.
My slow steps turn from winter
while my key, like the unborn daffodil,
seeks a future warmth.
Cross-posted on Substack – https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/winters-end
Cross posted at https://joanvinallcox.substack.com/p/to-hope-without-knowing
To hope without knowing where you’re going
is to live richly,
learning to tolerate
ambiguity and surprise
and long times of quiet happenstance.
To keep moving when everything changes
is to accept the path,
learning to walk
with different rhythms
in a new landscape.
From The Winter of Listening in David Whyte’s Essentials
So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
The grey mauve of twilight
clouds the approach
of darkness
as I watch and wait.
Change gestating within hope:
Advent’s promise
teases me with the solstice’s
diminishment of darkness.
I pray to be more
capable of creating
light
before the darkness.
Learning Living 