2-8-24. Thoughts on aging and letting go.
When I first heard “The Blackbird,” In the middle Of night, I was just thirteen.
The misty, night rain, Soaking bare trees, Bringing nourishment. I stand at the window, A steady beat echoes
Blue star behind tree branch. White cloud passing half moon. Black space surrounds like a
This is the America I know: A sea of white, black, red, yellow And brown faces, Strong minds and voices Raised to the sun,
Itchy eyes scaly feet achy joints and bad teeth hair so fine
Dark bulk of a single bird, With red puffed up chest, As winter’s breeze sways his perch…
At that magical time When the yellow moon Sets, And the pink mist Of dawn,
Cold spring rain chills my body And yet, the birds fly in unison As if, it is a sunny day. The white tail deer Bounce through the ravine
The gift of summer Is the sound of a Creek flowing through Rocks. A blue bird perched
The flesh withers as we age But our inner spirit Remains the same. And when the body dies The spirit breaks free
I remember your smile, your laugh,… you gave so freely. It’s hard that you are gone. I sigh and walk along the bay.
The white snow lay gently on the ground in a swirl pattern. The sky, a slab of smooth grey stone.
Remember the night we took your mother’s car and drove over the skyway bridge? The moon was a bright light to show the way.
Inhale, the arms float up, Exhale, the arms float down, Namaste, at the heart. Inhale, the body bends, Hands at top of mat,
My spirit communes with the four directions: To the north are in-laws, our aging mother, her last