It is nearly one year since we were
forced to enter empty time .
The clock slowed; our days
drifted into each other
like floating logs at the edge of the sea,
but more gently, the hours sifting past
like large frigates, turning into days,
into weeks, the rhythm of our days
reduced to cups of tea and the occasional
making of meals, or To Do lists,
easily abandoned when a book
or a movie beckoned, because suddenly,
there was time, even for those of us
who are approaching its end.
We think back to all the small miracles
we rushed through, not realizing
they were miracles, so soon over:
poetry readings, gathering together,
taking trips, going to the theatre.
These days, we become more aware
of all the miracles that remain:
sunrise, sunset, cloud formations,
blue sky, the eternal waves breaking
upon the shore, its eternal roar,
and seabirds wheeling free
over shining waters.
Our hearts are so heavy with unshed tears,
yet with gratitude, too, for the joy and pain
of the journey made, the price we paid,
the times that will never come again.
We have slowed our pace, empty time
filling with memory, with the long,
glorious remembering, as we sit
by the window watching the sky change.
Just breathe, and listen.
Listen, and breathe.
The clock tick-tocks; the light
lifts and sifts and turns to dusk.
With quiet hearts, we drift,
we dream, we dream
a cosmic dancer, endlessly twirling,
a small Sufi, swirling,
in the inner chambers
of our hearts.
Inspired by The Cosmic Dancer by John O'Donahue. The italicized lines are his.
