May I learn to traverse the swamps,
deserts, mountains,
and grassy plains
of life, alert
and curious, watchful for the
uniqueness and
hidden grace each
contains. May I
also come to see the forces
shaping each of
these with eyes clear,
open, and free.
JDG
All through the day, I carry and
am carried by
this season’s green
and lilting song.
My Irish soul sings right along
with quickening
heart and dancing
feet. Through days of
rain and days of sun, the greening
melody pours
forth calling me
to sing this song.
JDG
A gray morning – one lavender
wisteria
blossom hangs small
and pale among
others, large and white. A sudden
slant of sun brings
light to new green
and old, lending
an unexpected radiance
to what was cast
in gray. Nothing
changed but the light.
JDG
After a frenzy of cleaning,
my granddaughters
diagnosed me
with CDO.
“What,” I asked, “is that?” “Obsessive
Compulsiveness,”
they said, “with the
letters all in
alphabetical order, just
like we know you’d
like them to be.”
Tee-hee. Tee-hee.
JDG
Eying me from his place upon
the chair, Toby
slowly gets down
and saunters to
my side. Placing his head on my
lap, he gazes
up at me, “Are
you finally done
fussing all about ’cause as you
must know, a pat
a day keeps those
doctors away.”
JDG
They got here early, those tiny
white and yellow
butterflies and
started scouting
in the sun for food and beauty
wherever they
might find them. They,
in turn, provide
both beauty and fine nourishment
for all others
who are hungry
and happen by.
JDG
White trunk trees hold flaming torches
of living green
as sun sparks fly,
lighting up this
long road home. What will greet me there,
I do not know,
but for now it’s
good to travel
this winding path where gold flashes
through the trees and
warms all that it
finds down below.
JDG
Today a tiny bird helped me
clean. Seeing cat
hair on the rug
I’d put outside
to shake, he picked and pecked with care,
holding on to
the treasure trove
he’d found there. We
both knew that old Beetles’ song rang
true: “I get by
with a little
help from my fiends.”
JDG
That single lavender iris
stands, surveying
the garden of
which she is a
part. Noting the early arrivals
and the stragglers,
she signals her
tribe, telling them,
“It’s not what the garden can do
for you; it’s what
you can do for
the garden. Come.”
JDG
(This is a guest post by my daughter.)
I sing a song of morning –
Muscles waking, aching, stretching,
Mouth open wide to let sleep out and draw wakefulness in.
The world sings with me,
Those first notes of birdsong
And the soft bubbling hiss of the coffeepot,
The clamor-scurry of the pets all around,
Reminding me that we all need fuel,
Food, sustenance,
If we’re going to face this new day.
The gray of early dawn cracks open,
An Easter egg in reverse, dull sky shell peeling away
Flashing hints and whispers and suggestions of color,
Brightness,
Light.
I sing a song of mourning –
Muscles clenched tight, bunched like fists,
Mouth pressed to a thin line, as if not saying it can unmake the truth.
The world sings with me,
The thin whistle of stinging wind
And the soft slimy hiss of whispered condolences,
The bustling efficiency of funeral directors and priests,
Reminding me that there’s always business
Busy-ness, toil,
Even when there aren’t any days left to face.
The gray of unfeeling closes over,
A spectral hand blocking out the sun,
Draining color and flavor and feeling,
Brightness,
Light.
I sing a song of morning mourning –
Funeral long past, grief packed away,
Lips pursed to whistle my scattered self home from my nighttime wanderings.
The world sings with me,
A thousand different songs of hope and despair
Murmurings of grief and grievances,
The chaos that resolves itself slowly into rhythm,
Reminding me that everything always gives rise to something,
Better, worse, only different
In this daily resurrection of self.
Color and colorlessness start their dance,
Tugging across my world,
Asking each other, and me,
What of today?
Bright, or dark?
Hanna Lange
