Figuring Out Life While Aging
New moon and fog As I glance out From my cave. A smugglers’ night: where are they? (Words on a page Delight me. I wouldn’t, couldn’t Be taught to hear As you heard.) Some trees are leafless Skeletonal And some cling to their leaves. (You’ve left And a new season Is emerging Into bleak darkness.) A brief flash of light - Others carry treasures I can’t see Or hear now But I am not alone.
I wake sulky, reluctant, reviewing my resentments, lonely, yet don’t want visitors. Nothing satisfies: the sun is too bright; Our home too quiet. I want to hide. Another funeral - sitting huddled within myself, fists clenched, trying not to listen, wanting to leave, shaking. I crave - a softening in my throat, eyes that don’t itch, a conversation no longer available. Somewhere there is joy, waiting, perhaps, to flash through me, again, but now I’m grieving.
My summer is over; chill seeps into the silent room: winter comes..
Give thanks for the hidden
that slips into the light.
Give thanks for the gladness
that drops into sadness.
Give thanks for the sorrow
that gives way to joy.
Give thanks for the grief
that flows from lost love.
Give thanks for love
that contains and infuses us.
Grief, like an infant
held to my heart
whimpers,
and I don’t know
how to comfort.
I walk on,
hoping for silence,
past homes
where death has
also visited
on this dark street.
If I could weep,
if I could mourn,
if I could comfort
(if i could silence
this abandoned child),
Perhaps I could rest.
Lament 3 The moment I wish to speak of the one gone, that moment my mouth opens and jagged phrases stumble out, That moment we’re locked in this incoherent moment, caught in a miasma of loss, of sorrow.
Slivers of light leak in through the screen and pane, under the heavy blue curtain. In the dawning dimness, a mirror reflects partially, a half-open door hiding what lies beyond. I am alone in a strange city.
I exhale grief like smoke, On a hot summer night alone Except for emails And ads. Where is he now, body and spirit, Shrouded beyond In mysteries. I turn away, Pick up my tasks, look at nothing, and hide in darkness.
Like a sign finally read after years of passing by,
turning down the path I’m required to take,
asking what happens in this time called “grief”.
There’s work to be done, putting a life away,
hidden fears discovered, and stories told of
what I was too close to see in our shared time.
The busyness loosens and tasks frustrate.
Suddenly I am distraught and yelling, lost
and alone, shaking in anger.
Sometimes my voice wobbles and eyes tear.
Sometimes I am happy in a new moment.
Sometimes I don’t know who I am.
Some who have walked this path tell me
it never ends, but it has corners of comfort
and grows less steep and rough.
I want to be . . .
I don’t know what this “new normal” is
yet.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” - Mary Oliver Only a little time left, to walk alone in this precious and wild world; I plan to shape and walk my own wild and precious path.
Learning Living 