"Our Lives are Brindled Feeling"
(for Lighthouse Hospice Social Workers 2014)
Our lives are brindled
shades of feeling;
our days are
mottled hues of thought.
Cascading over the
epochs of time,
stretching always out
and just beyond the
full measure of our
grasp and sight.
We are unsure of
where the river goes
beyond its turning
bend and wending
way. Spilling its
purpling muddy
courses onward.
We cannot know what
wind will blow just
up ahead; we cannot say
what lies in wait
at the noonday. A blast of
heat or tempest
on our face.
We can only
learn to say
how we will hold ourselves
against all that comes at us;
how we will hold ourselves
within all we will yet be glad
to know.
The rose petals
lie still
in their own
aging beauty,
fading slowly over time.
The eyes see
only this;
brittle flower flesh,
dried and gathering
the dust of death.
The heart adds
vibrant layers
to what is seen:
meaning from that day,
feeling for that “one”,
a scent upon the air,
a flutter on the skin
a swirling mass of
intuition and repose.
A cavalcade of days - when
love shared love
with love and marked its
passing with flower,
stem and leaf.
Our memory holds
them fresh for just
only so long– a rough
ceramic bowl of our own
collecting. The heart
it knows another way.
Gently walk them
to the edge of the garden;
silently show them
the footfall’s echo.
They will turn for you
and you will be gone,
your touch a distant
sense among it all.
Our lives are brindled
shades of feeling;
our days are
mottled hues of thought.
Cascading over the
epochs of time,
stretching always out
and just beyond the
full measure of our
grasp and sight.
We are unsure of
where the river goes
beyond its turning
bend and wending
way.
We cannot know what
wind will blow just
up ahead; we cannot say
what lies in wait
at the noonday.
We can only learn to say
how we will hold ourselves
against all that comes at us;
how we will hold ourselves
within all we will yet be glad
to know.
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