Today is daughter Wallis' birthday. She was my firstborn and I recall the first moment that I held her in my arms. I remember how she looked, how she smelled, how she felt. She is in my arms again, so tiny, so precious, so loved.
Tomorrow the year of the Tiger begins. It could end badly for the estimated 3,200 tigers that still roam the earth. The tiger is quickly disappearing due to habitat loss and poaching. The pelt is worth $20,000, each paw can be sold for $1,000. Chinese use body parts for medicine. The bones become aphrodisiacs.
Tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day. The Catholic Church has three St Val's - all martyred. Wendell Berry, "The burden of absence grows, and I pay daily the grief I owe to love."
I dedicate this new poem to all crones that come to this blog with open hands. Especially Sharon S. who turns 70 in March.
"Crone Song"
We crones have gone beyond
The call of our own voice of innocence
And with our hand upon the door
We stand looking into another world
To which we do too soon depart.
Our blood will feed the giddy worms,
Our flesh enrich the soil.
Perhaps the roots of a maple
Will clutch my rigid bones.
Then those who tap the tree
Will get a taste of me
And wonder at such sweetness.
Or will a heron flying home at dusk
Listen as owls perched in my strong limbs
Mutter their message to the future?
Or will I rise from my grave
A graceful blue violet
To be praised with the simple joy
Of a wandering butterfly?
Or shall I find my rest
On a bed of moss where a shy child
Will press her eager ear
Against my velvet mouth to hear
My songs of awe full love?
Tomorrow the year of the Tiger begins. It could end badly for the estimated 3,200 tigers that still roam the earth. The tiger is quickly disappearing due to habitat loss and poaching. The pelt is worth $20,000, each paw can be sold for $1,000. Chinese use body parts for medicine. The bones become aphrodisiacs.
Tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day. The Catholic Church has three St Val's - all martyred. Wendell Berry, "The burden of absence grows, and I pay daily the grief I owe to love."
I dedicate this new poem to all crones that come to this blog with open hands. Especially Sharon S. who turns 70 in March.
"Crone Song"
We crones have gone beyond
The call of our own voice of innocence
And with our hand upon the door
We stand looking into another world
To which we do too soon depart.
Our blood will feed the giddy worms,
Our flesh enrich the soil.
Perhaps the roots of a maple
Will clutch my rigid bones.
Then those who tap the tree
Will get a taste of me
And wonder at such sweetness.
Or will a heron flying home at dusk
Listen as owls perched in my strong limbs
Mutter their message to the future?
Or will I rise from my grave
A graceful blue violet
To be praised with the simple joy
Of a wandering butterfly?
Or shall I find my rest
On a bed of moss where a shy child
Will press her eager ear
Against my velvet mouth to hear
My songs of awe full love?
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