Mother Sky / Small Bird

A twiggy nest,
a serene brown bird ~

singing!

***

Small bird,

with your sweetness

you are

the bodhisattva

of my morning.

Songstress,

you awaken me

to the plight of all beings.

***

You,

who own only feathers,

are far happier

than we.

Teach us your song.

***

for De's prompt at dVerse: a 44 word Bird quadrille

SEEING LIKE THE BUFFALO

Credit: Tom Murphy (source) 

The buffalo know to face a storm head-on,

to not turn away and risk the snow covering them,

but facing first, causing a division, the snow

parting and blowing past.

The buffalo came thundering at Standing Rock,

to defend the warriors trying to save the river.

Buffalo have deep earth wisdom and, it seems,

a strong sense of justice,

as do all wild things who are suffering the fate

of the voiceless, uncared for by those chasing 

oil and weath at the expense of every living thing -

including, in time, themselves.

Sigh.

That I see these things with clear eyes

does not help. Taking the existential view

does not let me unsee a hundred and fifty

little girls, what's left of them buried

as the rockets fall, buildings crumble,

and the insanity of war begins again,

thanks to one deluded demented old man

awake at two in the morning 

(where were his minders?)

deciding he could because he can.

Like the buffalo, I am looking at it head on.

Long before the world
recovers from its madness,

I'll be gone.

TEN YEARS LATER

Ten years and more later,

walking without you,

there is a familiar loneliness, that

has always been mine, ten years of being alone

at the edge of aloneness, a peaceful stillness,

a solitude that understands there will never

again be you and me, the complete companionship

of two wild hearts.

At the river's edge, the dappled sunlight

plays across the water; the great trees

lean down. We walked here, so often,

together, your brown eyes gleaming,

nose to the ground, smelling all

the wild smells, tail and ears up,

alert for scurryings in the bush.

Ten years ago, I dreamed of you.

Your absence was a presence in my life.

You looked uncared for and sad.

You were missing me,

as I was missing you.

I am always missing you.

I carry you within, a big black wolf,

in my wild wolf-woman heart.

On nights when the moon is full,

we both give a long, low, silent howl.

Inspired by David Whyte's Ten Years Later. The italicized lines are his.

for my prompt at What's Going On : Ten Years Later. It has been more than ten years now. But when I look back, that big, black wolf is always who I see, running along the forest trails with me.

THIS POEM

 

This poem will not bring the climate
back into balance, elect sane leaders,
stop incomprehensible and immoral wars,
or grant us peace.

It won't plump up our bank balance,
fix our broken appliances,
make our old friends, who have been
silent so long, send an email.

It won't make my hair
(or my children!) behave,
and I have always been
socially awkward.

This poem takes a rainy morning,
a very bad headache, fatigue,
outrage at the daily news,
and turns it into counting blessings:

gratitude, for the rainforest,
its owls and eagles and herons,
wolves and stumbling bears;
gratitude for my cozy rooms 
and fleecy blankets,
wolf pictures on every wall;

gratitude for the beauty of Mother Earth,
still blooming spring blossoms
and baby lambs, even though
her humans are treating her badly;
gratitude for happy dogs
lolloping along sandy beaches,
tongues out, grinning toothily:
no one does gratitude (and exuberance)
better than dogs.

This poem has taken a few minutes to write.
But all by itself, it has changed my mind
from sad resignation
to gratitude and hope.

Sometimes a poem can do that.

Not Someone Else's Daydream

 

Conventional husbands of the sixties quaked

when their wives discovered Ms magazine

and The Feminine Mystique.

We looked in the mirror and discovered

our eyes had grown determined.

Our wings flapped and fluttered

against confines

until we bent the bars

with the force of our will,

popped the cage door open,

and burst through.

There is as much pain in birthing self

as birthing others.

Much bleeding, and much healing.

Some thoughts in desperate midnights

of giving up,

but we stuck around in hopes

it would get better.

And, for a time, it did,
beyond our wildest dreams.

The jackals had come

to feast upon our bones,

but a wily raven warned us,

so we spirited them away.

Within the forest deep,

we put ourselves back together

with owl songs and wing feathers,

and learned a language

of our own making.

Then we re-entered our lives

as ourselves,

no longer

someone else's daydream.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Women and History (Herstory?) 

Scratch a Baby Boomer and find a feminist, lol. In the early 70's, womens' consciousnesses were rising all over the place. It was a heady time. My chauvinist soon-to-be-ex was appalled at the developments. We are a formidable force, once provoked. Some orange-cheeked "leaders" would do well not to underestimate us. The regime in the States is trying to block women from voting by not recognising their married names. Good grief.

In Transition

 

First, I transitioned from active motherhood

to grandmotherhood, all those years

of shepherding growing children

along the forest trails, a gift to last them

all their lives: nature and books,

a lasting legacy.

Next, I transitioned to elderhood,

my favourite colour changing

from purple to earth's mossy hues,

rewilding myself into a world of green,
my love affair with nature
and a wild black wolf
the best of all my years.

I cultivated the sprig of poetry

that had waited patiently

all those busy years, for me to have time,

felt the rush of dammed-up words

springing free at last.

I feel myself in transition,
now, once more,

from this world I love so much,

suspended here, in thankfulness,

just before what comes next.

Now the words are all of gratitude:

for the life I've had, a wilder journey

than I ever could have dreamed,

for the beauty of the earth,

which makes my heart ache
with both thankfulness and grief,
for all the many gifts, the help
I was given along the way

and for that endless sky, containing secrets

I have yet to understand.
Leave the window open,
when it's time,
so my spirit can find its path
out into the cosmos
and away.

BLACKBIRD

For years I wandered aimlessly

up and down,

past all the pretty cottages

in the town

where happy people lived.

Oh, how I dreamed,

when I was on the outside

looking in,

that one day I would live,

like them, within.

I found a blackbird heart.

We loved each other true.

But, unused to being cherished,

knew not what to do

with all the feelings we kept

locked inside

through all the fear we tried

so hard to hide.

"And now you're inside

looking out", he said,

and it was true -

the cornerstone of my free spirit,

trapped and full of rue.
He could not say

the words to make me stay.

So I took my broken heart

and walked away.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: The Unspoken

In the early 80's, I met the man who was The One. But we had five teenagers between us, who made it difficult to be together, as they were unhappy with the changes we caused in their lives. Because the kids were unhappy, and because he could not make the commitment I needed to feel secure in the relationship, and didn't know how to ask for it, I left. Within the next year or two, the older kids were gone anyway. I regret I didn't have the courage to stay. Yet it wasn't long until I flew up over the mountains and landed by the sea, so that was the soul journey that was meant to be.

I Light the Incense

I light the incense in my small room. Nag Champa, my favourite and my grandma's favourite. My mother loved sandalwood best. But Nag Champa takes me to the Himalayas, the breathtaking peaks, where the snow lion walks on large soft paws, elusive, mythical. The Himalayas, where smiling weathered faces peer from dark rooms lit by flickering candles. 

I light the incense in my small room, a dark Tibetan kitchen framed upon the wall, an aged wrinkled Tibetan face hung above. Tibetan prayer flags flutter, as the breeze wafts the scent my way.

In memory, I see my Grandma's humble, peaceful cottage. In memory, I watch my mother light small cones of sandalwood, her huge blue eyes, her platinum hair, her movie star smile.

I light the incense in my small room. How quickly it burns itself to ash.

Blessings

Blessings......

monks' bare feet walking

across the winter landscape

just walking, as meditation, as love,

as compassion, as gift -

to hearts and minds bowed down with grief

at what is becoming of our world.

Right here, right now,

a light skiff of frost on the lawn,
crocuses shivering in the morning chill,

my chair, my computer, my keyboard

seeking the next poem, some hope,

the comfort in a cup of tea......

ordinary things, surrounding us,
ready to serve -

small gifts, to warm the heart,

while, day after day, mile

after mile, the beautiful monks

keep walking along the icy streets.

Today it is colder, so Aloka the dog

is placed in the RV. I hope the monks

have all put on their shoes.

How thin their robes,

how large their journey,

a gift of love and light they give us

with their every measured step.

How emotional, the tears and smiles

with which they are met, by people

hungry for goodness, for kindness,

for peace in a world gone dark.

for my prompt at What's Going On - Blessings

I penned this while the monks were still walking. Their walk ended February 14 when they returned to their home monastery in Texas. Such an emotional return. I was online with them their final week, could not tear myself away. The walk is over. The journey continues. No doubt, there will be more monk poems. Their walk is one of the most impactful events of my life. It spoke to my soul, which has been so hungry - like all of ours - for the beauty and hope they brought.

They say when monks walk, it is a warning, that the world is too out of balance. I was heartened by the tens of thousands of people who gathered to watch them pass, and who joined them in huge numbers at their stopping places, to hear the teachings of Bhikkhu Pannakara, about how to stay steady and find peace in the midst of turbulent times. We all fell in love with the little monk dog Aloka who walked with them.

It is sad that the walk has ended. But Bhikkhu promised we will still walk together online. If you are interested, their facebook page is   https://www.facebook.com/walkforpeaceusa

On youtube, there are many beautiful videos of their walk and some beautiful songs have been made into videos. Search for Walk for Peace, Aloka, and Sy Long (for the songs). So inspiring. I cant watch any of it without tears. We carry so much grief these days.

ALOKA

 

source

Aloka,
little monk-dog,
leading with your paws for peace,
your name means light,
your devotion so great,
you walked through heat
and storm and snow
to follow your beloved monks
as far as they could go.

Stray dog in India,
when they passed,
you recognized you had found
your family at last.
Who could have known
that now you are adored
by millions, walking for peace
at the other end
of a cord.

source

You stayed serene
through pain and parting,
long hours of speeches,
longer hours of walking,
as if in memory of other lives,
this was a life
you recognized.

Now you are home, so happily,
and I am happier to see
you playing in the temple yard
after a journey so long and hard.

Aloka, little monk of life,
spirit dog, you ease our strife.

Aloka, little monk-dog, know
we love you everywhere you go.

source

Alan Gordon

FIVE THINGS

 

source

1. I probe my feelings like an energy diviner, rods bending to identify grief, beauty, sorrow, hopefulness, the energy we have lived in the last few weeks as the beloved monks and Aloka walked across this country in the bitter cold - for peace, for compassion - for us. It is the first day without them, as they head home. Bhikkhu Panakara's sad face, waving through the bus window. So hard to say goodbye. Remembering how he cried, walking to the Lincoln Memorial, because he was overwhelmed by the numbers of people who stood in the cold to see them pass, all moved by the beauty of their journey - so starved, our hearts, in these troubled times for something beautiful to light up the darkness. So hard to have it end. Yet it has been one of the most profoundly beautiful passages of my life.

2. Through blizzards, snowstorms, biting winds, sometimes barefoot, sometimes ill, they kept walking. Even when one young monk lost his leg after being hit by a car. Even when Aloka the peace dog needed surgery and rehabilitation. Step after step, from Texas to Washington, as we all woke up to their journey, joined them along the roadside, or online, our hearts remembering - because they showed us - humanity, compassion, respect, the goodness in human hearts, so many of us longing for peace. Brought to tears daily by their beauty, the sacrifice they made, for us, for all beings. Trying to move past the grief of this ending to the bigness of their offering.

source

3. Sitting in the sun, rocking, in the place of No Thought: May all beings be well, happy and at peace. Sunshine. Warmth. Birdsong. Simply rocking. The way they walked, one step, another step. Simply walking - to change the world. And we awakened.

4. Remembering that we are still connected in the family of souls, that we can revisit the videos, the facebook page, to see their beloved faces, hear their voices, share the quest for peace in ourselves, in all beings, in the world. "They did not walk to be remembered. They walked so we might remember who we are."

5. The walk for peace has ended, but the journey continues. Namaste.

source

Creating Sanctuary

 

I built my house of driftwood and sea fog,

wrapped it around me, the way a sand dollar

creates its home from sand and grit around it

and carries it within.

I go there when the world is loud and cruel,
injustice and inhumanity too much to bear,

pull the drawbridge up, bathe in silence

and necessary peace, turn off the news,

turn on gratitude, quietude,
my beating heart
steadying

like the ticking clock on the windowsill

of my childhood.

I create a sanctuary there, where cruelty

has no place, and beauty
and compassion still exist
- (that line of monks, padding softly
through the snow) -
where all the values I hold dear

still shine. I create poems in that peaceful place,
a line of walking monks, some grace,

reminding us that beauty is still here,

kindness still lives. They are telling us

it is still all ours to give.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Creation

The Journey

 

I have been a different woman every decade,

growing from terrified child to lost teen,

from oppressed wife to liberated free spirit,

from single mother to voyageur -

that one leap midlife the beginning

of a whole other journey.

I forgive the many missteps

that got me here. It takes a tree

a long time to grow strong and wise,
with flexible boughs to bend with every wind.

I make peace with having done

the best I could. Given my beginnings,

there is no way it could have been

otherwise.

I built my scaffold with hammer and tong,
making do with whatever lay at hand,

wove my spirit's home out of driftwood

and sea spray, set my sights forever

on blue sky. The call of the wolf

has always been

my reason why.

From the Edge of Hope

source

Fellow traveller,

across the cold, hard landscape

of our broken dreams,

I bid you safe passage,

(a safe journey, a safe return,)

a door open wide

on arrival to shelter you,

cool water to drink,

sustenance

and rest.

Masked men with guns

have overtaken the road

most travelled.

See the empty cars

with smashed windows

by the side of the road.

See the children inside,

wondering where

their parent has gone.

Where to find shelter

in a world so dark?

The forests are full

of hungry animals

who have been displaced.

Prison camps are full

of traumatized humans

whose lives have been blown apart.

How did we make
a world like this?
How do we dream
a better dream,
shelter for every
seeking heart?

My heart finds shelter

in a line of monks in orange robes,

walking across a winter landscape,

walking for peace - for compassion

- for hope - step after step,

not stopped by the bitter cold,

forward, only forward,

into whatever comes next.

I can only offer a blessing

for your travels.

(A safe journey, a safe return.)

May all beings find

a place of safety in which

to weather the storms ahead.

May all beings find shelter

behind that welcoming door.

(A safe journey, and a safe return.)

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Shelter.

I Wake Up and It Breaks My Heart*

 

I open my eyes on a beautiful West Coast morning: sunshine, forest breathing greenly, eagles soaring above, the eternal waves rolling in to shore. The world could not be more beautiful. Yet its human and non-human beings are suffering. Holding both these truths at once breaks my heart.

So much suffering: humans, whales, polar bears, Mother Earth herself, all of her creatures struggling to adapt to the climate crisis, wars, discord and injustice that (in)humanity has caused.

I have lived through suffering often in my 79 years. But what is on my tv screen these days I never thought I'd see in North America. Yet here we are.

I was raised to live in hope, "hand on my heart, hand on my stupid heart*", believing that faith and goodness and laws and rights and freedoms - that justice itself - would hold strong.

This box of darkness is too heavy. Yet I have to believe that, collectively, far more of us believe in justice and equality and human rights than not. We can put this box down, rise up to reclaim all we hold most dear, talk loudly to our representatives, VOTE!!!, help, protect and bear witness to our neighbours in harm's way. March for the dispossessed, both human and animal. Help where we can.

I carry two truths in my tired and aching heart: the world could not be more beautiful. That it also is suffering lives in my every heartbeat.

In the morning, I open my eyes on this beautiful West Coast world. And it both lifts and breaks my heart all over again.

* title and italicized lines from "Meditations In an Emergency" by Cameron Awkward-Rich

For my prompt atWhat's Going On: Help for Hurting Hearts. (Not sure how much help it offers, sadly. Other than sharing the journey.)

No Words

 I don't even have words for what happened this morning in Minneapolis. As I watched, a feeling of doom came over me. This. Must. Stop.

HUMANITY RISING

 

Where to find hope or inspiration,
when cruelty and lawlessness,
racism and fascism,
things we never dreamed could be this bad
in North America,
assault us every day
on our tv screens?

It is in
a line of monks
walking across America,
spreading compassion,
exemplifying peace.
Showing us how.

It is in humanity rising
in response to brutality,
neighbours turning out 
to support neighbours.
Love trumping darkness,
even if it takes a while.
Because this is not who we are.

It is in intentional writing,
our words, like the monks' footsteps,
travelling across the page or screen,
our fingers tapping solidarity,
our gaze as loving and serene
as Aloka's,
looking out at a world gone mad,
yet clinging to the peacefulness
within,
so the dark and toxic ones
don't win.

Seeking Peace

 

Walk for Peace photo

Everything is beautiful,
and I am so sad.*

Where to find peace in difficult times?

It's in a line of monks in orange robes,

walking across America for peace and compassion:

their quiet hearts, their smiles, their fingers
raised in blessing.

It's in the sunrise rising up over Rosie Bay,

in the crows strutting along the beach,

turning over shells, looking for their breakfast.

Everything is beautiful*
 and then I turn on the news,
speechless at the illegality, the inhumanity,
the cruel brutality,
yet also lifted up
by the voices of good people
fighting to uphold the rule of law.

Then, I have to
disappear, like a hermit,
into the forest,
to listen to the trees
breathing peace.
What we save, saves us,
I read somewhere,
and it is true.
The trees fill me with their peace,
and I emerge transformed,
renewed, restored.

I have carried beauty and sorrow
in equal measure
through the length
of my old age,
watching the world I love
fall apart.

We turn from scenes we never dreamed
we'd see

on the streets of North America:
an angry, ugly boil that has festered
and broken open.

I walk, like the monks,
intentionally,

to find some peace, and there she is -

a fox, where there has never been
a fox before -

peering from the thicket
- not alarmed, not running off -

just looking, as if to ponder what manner

of beast we humans are, to make so much noise

and clamour and distress on lands

meant for peace and plenty,
for beauty and for joy.

I carry the forest's peace
with me as I leave.
When the clamour is too great
it is the wild
that helps me grieve.

The fox sighting was by a friend, not me. But she sent me the photo and I put her sweet face into this poem.

***The italicized lines are from Mark Nepo's poem "Adrift".

A slight adjustment to last Friday's poem, for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Peace.

What's going on indeed - things I never dreamed would happen this close to home. In Canada, we are appalled - and nervous.

In Difficult Times

 

facebook image from Walk for Peace

Where to find poetry in difficult times?

It's in a line of monks in orange robes,

walking across America for peace and compassion:

their quiet hearts, their smiles, their fingers
raised in blessing.

It's in the sunrise rising up over Rosie Bay,

in the crows strutting along the beach,

turning over shells, looking for their breakfast.

It's in the daily news, horrifying, heartbreaking,

violent attacks on innocent civilians, and it's in

the voices of those there to witness, asking

"what's your name? who can I call?"

We turn from scenes we never dreamed we'd see

on the streets of North America,
an angry, ugly boil that has festered
and broken open.
We walk, like the monks,

to find some peace, and there she is -

a fox, where there has never been a fox before -

peering from the thicket
- not alarmed, not running off -

just looking, as if to ponder what manner

of beast we humans are, to make so much noise

and clamour and distress on lands

meant for only peace and plenty.

The fox sighting was by a friend, not me. But she sent me the photo and I put her sweet face into this poem.

Begin Again

 

Walk for Peace

"Something that will not acknowledge conclusion insists that we forever begin."
from Brendan Kennelly's poem "Begin".

The year begins, not at all hopeful,
and yet......

in the early morning light, nineteen monks
chant prayerfully before setting out
on their journey across America,
walking for peace, for compassion,
bringing hope for better times
in their kind eyes.

Beautiful spirit-dog Aloka, a being of
unutterable love, walks beside them,
light on his paws, jauntiness in his tail.

This journey is met with tears
by people so hungry for kindness, for beauty,
in a year beginning even darker than the last,
as we watch leaders repeat the horrors
of the past, having learned nothing
about peace, or how to be happy
just being.

Bless the monks on their journey of compassion,
who are cold and tired with aching feet
they never mention and quietly bandage each night.
Two or three are walking barefoot
to make their offering even stronger.

Their gift is so great. They lift my heart.
They help me believe - that goodness
will always triumph in the end, because
the alternative is not livable.
Day by day, I will pace my small rooms
in spiritual community with the beautiful monks.
I will send out compassion and kindness
and hope. Each morning,
like the beautiful monks,
I will begin again.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On:  BEGINNINGS

Holding On

Maybe you don't know strength
until the world has brought you to your knees,
as low as you can go, and yet
you somehow find it within you
to get back up and try again.

Maybe you don't know hope
until, after the hardest winter of your life,
you see a tree frog on your deck,
and small green growing things
start popping up out of the soil.

Maybe you think you are alone,
until you come home exhausted
after the worst day ever, and
two wriggling, barking explosions
of joy leap around, tails wagging,
as if you are back from an Arctic expedition
and have been away too long.

Maybe you start to think that life
will never get any easier, that struggle
is all you will ever know,
until you remember other hard times
and the better days that followed,
and remind yourself that,
after the cold winter, good days
and sunshine and laughter and hope
will come again. 

Maybe you feel so discouraged
that even the blue sky fails
to lift your heart. And yet,
you were born for sunny days,
and visits from the neighbourhood deer,
and green smiles from the tall cedar.
All - all - are surrounding you
with all the beauty they know,
in order to comfort you,
remind you you are loved,
and keep you holding on
for better days.

Dedicated to a loved one who is struggling harder than any one human should ever have to do.

Ordinary Things

Monks for peace with Aloka

Ordinary extraordinary things........

monks' bare feet walking

across the winter landscape

just walking, as meditation, as love,

as compassion, as gift -

to hearts and minds bowed down with grief

at what is becoming of our world.

Right here, right now,

a light film of unexpected snow on the lawn,

my chair, my computer, my keyboard

seeking the next poem,

the comfort in a cup of tea -

ordinary things, surrounding us, ready to serve -

small gifts, to warm the heart,

while, day after day, mile

after mile, the beautiful monks

keep walking along the icy streets.

Today it is colder, so Aloka the dog

is placed in the RV. I hope the monks

have all put on their shoes.

How thin their robes,

how large their journey,

a gift of love they give us

with their every measured step.

How emotional, the tears and smiles

with which they are met, by people

hungry for goodness, for kindness,

- for some hope -

and for peace in a world gone dark.

Inspired by The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider.

LETTING GO

Right here, right now,

I am gazing at the bare branches
of the cherry trees,
divested of their leaves.

The visiting dog is

rolling and rubbing himself

on the lawn, and groaning,
making us laugh,

reminding me of my own wolf-dog,

how he cracked me up every day,

how, at times, he tried to talk.

What is wisdom?

What is letting go?

the poet asks.

I ponder.

Now is the time for

long, slow days,
remembering:

all the losses, all the gifts,

the hellos and the goodbyes.

How joyously we welcomed in

all of those highs,

how we mourned all the lows.

And yet what we were mourning

were the things that had brought us

the most happiness. So were they even

losses in the end?

Perhaps wisdom is

the letting go,

the acceptance of

Being Here Now.

I cast my mind back

through all the years,

plucking out this memory,

and that, like silver-backed salmon

from shining seas.

Truly, I am not counting losses

at all, but only gifts. Old age

is a time when, though we carry grief,
we hold it with gratitude,
hearts replete with
all of the beauty,
all of the blessings.

Letting go
of the beauty of this earth
will be the hardest.
But, for that,
all that we need do
is to
surrender.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Letting Go.

Pantoum

 

source

The owl in the cedar hoots under the wolf moon.
The village is silent, dreams just out of reach,
as wolves, bears and cougars pad about in the darkness,
I, awake and listening for what the silence has to teach.

The village is silent, dreams just out of reach.
Darkness, dark, it has never been so dark.
I, awake, and listening for what silence has to teach,
as the world is going mad, the horror fresh and stark.

Darkness, dark, it has never been so dark.
When will this world I love ever learn to live in peace?
The world is going mad, the horror fresh and stark.
Who will stop the madness? When will the nightmare cease?

When will this world I love ever learn to live in peace?
Wolves, bears and cougar, are fearful in the darkness.
Bless all the furry beasts. May they find shelter soon.
Wise owl in the cedar, lonely under the wolf moon.

I haven't attempted a pantoum in a while, so gave it a try.

WHAT BELONGS TO US

What belongs to us?

Not the sky, though our eyes fly to it
many times a day,
for beauty, for inspiration, for hope.

Not the earth, brown and humble and mothering,
though it forms a platform for our feet
and keeps us standing.

Not the trees, breathing peace and oxygen,
removing carbon dioxide and human toxins
from our struggling bodies.

Not each other, for we live and die alone,
though love is threaded through the generations,
and weaves a tapestry between our hearts
and every other.

Not the dreams we dreamed,
that got replaced by other dreams,
which turned out to be the right dreams
after all.

Not every item in my small rooms,
gathered with love, which will be scattered
when I move to a hospital and only need
a comb and toothbrush.
(Goodbye, all my wolves!)

What belongs to us? What do we
take with us on this long journey
to the end of things?

The memories. When we are lying in a bed
in just a hospital nightgown
(please bring me cozy blankets!)
our thoughts will go back to the beginning
and all the way through
this amazing, astonishing, unpredictable
and magical life,
and we will see the signposts
where we were helped and guided
off the wrong paths and onto
the path that is only ours

and we will be
grateful, grateful, grateful
for it all.

Inspired by What Belongs To Us by Marie Howe