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Christopher Reeve is smiling heroically
dead on the cover of Reader's Digest
As I await my second root canal this week.
On the wall Sailboats on water under glass
float twice to my eyes from this illusory
light
going nowhere.
The thorny roses, I've just left
have pink, sexual buds on tough wintered
wood
extremes I've never noticed until now.
I missed my meditation upon death
the last two days
while running after information
the reasons for
two beavers bodies, male and female, found
25 meters apart in the creek
next to my house.
Is it natural?
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My Christmas list of losses:
On Christmas Day
car totalled on the icy pass
we two, reprieved, the mangled frame
crushed on four sides, settled
collapsed upon itself, not on us.
We in gratitude released
our damaged love intact.
And then the wedding ring
fallen gold
perhaps hidden round in round
nestled in the garbage can
soundless, unnoted
amid the cast off notes.
I can only speculate.
Yesterday I turned on
the screen full of my life of art,
images, poems, plays
all dissolved into the unvirtuous universe.
Practing.
I am letting go
even of the hold of grief
around my R.A. damaged hands
finger and palms upon which no touch can
read.
of the body parts that cancer claimed.
I cannot remember when I felt whole
since childhood
I am practicing
letting go.
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Cold Sun bites the clouds
gray light spills high above
pouring from the sky.
Footprints in fresh snow
like round petals on the ground
so many blossoms of life.
My neighbour's fence cries
missing her in the sharp wind
forgotten in haste.
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