Disinterested in Gloom

Nature is indulging herself again

tossing out one of her famous

seasonal tantrums; weeping sky

utterly haggard, grey countenance,

hoarse whispers of angry denial in 

wind whirling through treetops and 

no relief in sight from those deep

doldrums of miserable disaffection;

it is by any account a gloomy day.

We are not invested in glumness

nor is the cardinal, tuning out the

cloud-bruised lid above, ringing

the woods with its trill.  An owl's

steady querying response is more 

playful than mournful.  An ovenbird 

calls, inviting the lunatic glee of a 

Pileated, besotted with spring.  And 

a nuthatch creeps downside up, 

quite disinterested in gloom.

Button

Easing The Pain

We hardly know her,

a pleasant young woman

just recently taken to

walking her two small

Scotch terriers in the

woods, a place we

frequent daily.  She has

noted the absence of one

of our little dogs, and

tells us she believes in

the healing process of

discussing the death of a 

beloved pet to ease the pain.

One of us explains quietly

how devastating it has been

for us to lose the presence

of our decades-long companion.

He does not speak of the gloom

and longing that has settled

over us, or the long, fond

shared memories.  He does,

however, add that we have 

found it painful, not easeful,

to speak of our loss.  He says

all this while the other weeps.

Open/Close

Those are deft and gentle

hands so expertly probing

about where muffled words

escape my mouth, lips

stretched in pantomime of

a smile as the hygienist

scrapes and softly enquires

whether I can manage to

endure her ministrations.

As children we dreaded the

dire dental office visit, trapped

within a miserable, painful

ritual that terrorizes all children.

As adults, gritting teeth we

submit to necessity.  In our

old age, no more reconciled

despite great strides in care and

management; the grim intrusion

and sensitive reactions cannot

redeem the irredeemable.

 

Home To Nest

It is surely the comfort
of tried-and-true expectations,
the confidence that what was there
will remain so, that urgently
persuades them to return.
Routine and familiarity alert
consciousness to the order of
the universe, as creatures
willingly succumb to urges
well beyond understanding
but which promise in some
dim recess of inherited memory,
fulfillment of destiny; nature's
clockwork existence.

As the hawks return to the
forest, whistling and screeching
their presence, they indulge in
wind-borne pyrotechnics to
exhibit their satisfied return.
And small, furred creatures
take heed.  High in a half-blasted
old pine another nest is assembled,
then occupied as owls prepare for
another breeding season.  The drake
and the duck again returned to
the shallow, turgid forest stream
dabble and proceed to nest.

Possession

It is as though a
malevolent spirit has
entered and taken random
possession of our thoughts
and our emotions, as
though we are helpless
and cannot rescue ourselves
from its jealous, manipulating
clutches, forcing us to
dwell upon this pain that
will not leave us.  The
phantom presence of the
loved one manifests the
depth of the wound not
amenable yet to the
salving effects of
distance between the
quick and the dead.

 

Becoming Old

They are changes, subtle
yet persistent, noted
in some remote recess
of the mind, but
relegated to the back,
ignored and unexamined,
present as a deep-seated
feeling of loss, a hum
of disquiet, surfacing
when we are most 
emotionally vulnerable,
as a tremor may warn
of impending collapse
and thoughts become
chaotic with confusion
and we fail to grasp
the significance of
decelerating functionality,
our physical sovereignty ebbing
and worn with a lifetime
of casual use, our senses
declining while distant
memories flood our sensory
system - other avenues
of plausible existence
fading the while all takes
on an unfamiliar hue as of a
witness to the final act of
someone's span of life.

The Clockwork Springs

Where, we wonder now, went

that spirit of benevolence

that surely inspired nature

to respect her own ancient pact

with the seasonal elements

assured by her majestic edict

that there is a time and a place

for everything and to each is

owed temporary advantage

eventually to be ceded to 

seasons whose time has come.

The wistful welcome each

allotted at their time of grace

ample regard in recognition of

timeless order of endless days.

The never-ending cycle of death

and birth, ruin and renewal as 

the Universe itself orders 

entropy, fusion, fission and being, 

dimensional and unseen, winding 

the clockwork springs of life.