Author: heather

Like a muscle gripped

against old pain

and softened,

discovering quiet after assault

 

like a candle snuffed out

by velvet night breezes

so darkness can dance

in a spangled cloak

 

like a spring-fed lake

whose only exit

is evaporation

ongoing

 

the opposite of hope

is not despair.

There was a lilypad

pushed by ripples

to rub up against the next,

opening like a baby’s mouth

to gawp against its neighbour.

 

I watched the green

look like it was eating its brother

but each soft undulation

left both unharmed.

 

There was a rain falling

so gently

it left no splashes on the lake,

reminding my body

of being watered.

 

Flowers in full bloom

on the surface,

other leaves suspended below,

upheld by water

and me and this damp page

receiving gratefully.

I am spending more time

with my prognosis:

dying

this death that seems slow

but won’t at the end

 

instead of putting on a sweater

and waiting in the office

for the name of it

 

I am lying in the sun

and letting rain touch me

 

the diagnosis sparks

such gossip

as if it were rare

 

did you know she is dying?

the telephones shrill

or thumbs sketch out conjecture

 

as if it were unheard of

and not inevitable

as if the support group

is exclusive

 

keeping you out

 

…welcome.

Leave no trace,

walk so gently

the earth feels your toes

as a tickle

and grass springs back

after your touch.

 

Start erasing

with kindness

all the pencil marks

sketching your contours,

all the measurements

planned for safe cutting.

 

Think of your seeds

not as tall trees

but welcome birdfeed,

sprinkled unnoticed

except by the singers

too focussed for gratitude

or questions.

 

This delicate invitation

to make space

for the wide empty,

the deeply soundless hum,

contains a slight echo of loss

and a welcome vibration

of freedom.

Sometimes I see all these buds

and drying leaves

and petals with tips curled inwards

 

and I want to be the warm soil,

lush rain,

hot loving sun

 

so that everyone I greet

can flourish,

so that the blooming

can bring joy to all of us.

 

This secret embrace

of strangers

and the flowers

entwined with my own stem

has pure intent

and deep tenderness.

 

Braver still

to be the sun

and warm lush

without hope for any change,

trusting in the thrive

I will never see.

I have to smile at my habit

of sipping so lightly

at wisdom’s offered cup

before wanting to pass it along

with genuine generosity

 

and wisdom, more generous still

keeps bringing me flavours

and invitations

to drink the cup dry,

imbibing deeply,

a profound gluttony

I feared for so long,

satiation

from a cup that never empties.

 

These quenched roots

end travel as I have known it,

watering this precious blossom,

the offering not from any gesture;

scent wafting

from these full petals.

Those foals

who struggle only once

and find their legs so quickly

even as they falter

 

how did I miss that lesson,

why has it taken so long

to find these feet?

 

And even at this age

long past cute or innocent,

I can welcome the faltering

and bravely try to stand,

hoping that this wet

is residue

from a new birth.

Poetry of the body,

this tracing of currents

to see where thoughts travel,

glimmers of fish in streams,

where debris has diverted

fresh flow

and can be shifted.

 

And of course these thoughts

are rarely words,

moving as sensation and mood,

colours of some cousin to electricity.

 

Despite my blindness

and all the ways I am numb,

there is a kind of listening

that touches on knowing

and by these fragile threads

I lead myself home.