My Most Imperfect Offering

 

The practice of wabi sabi,

being with the beauty of

the imperfect, I have

turned into an art.

This is life, the poet said:

the aging body, the greying hair,

the slow days and fast weeks,

the gentle bending towards the earth

waiting to receive us.

Old age is deep time.

We sit in silent rooms

where the phone never rings.

But we know some truths by now

that the young have yet to learn:

we are the single drop; at the same time,

we are the ocean's wave.

This is how it is:

my heart, an undiscovered country,

my heart, an open book, still waiting

to be read
and understood.

My grandmother's eyes
look out of my face.
My mother's eyes
look out of my daughter's.
This is how it is.
We hold on,
we let go.

We keep silent
when the words don't work
and wait for time to soften
hearts and memory.

Reflecting, I scatter aged blossoms
to make a soft place
on which to kneel.
When I am ready, 
I ring the bell,
one solitary ring. 
I pray to the All-That-Is
to accept
my most imperfect
offering.

The first part of this poem was inspired by "Wabi Sabi" by Sharon Corcoran. The italicized words are hers.

Shared with earthweal's open link.