The Mists
Life's passion flashes fast, in the everlasting focus of our eyes,
Then dissipates, with the rapid slowing of ocean waves
Groping their way onto shores so distant from their origin,
They don't even recognize the silence quelling their joyous voices.
And once we do find our souls in going's humbling throes,
We don't realize, in most cases, anyway,
That the moment of our final departure has started
Or that the passage we began, with unsteady steps, is culminating,
With those same uncertain footfalls, in the midst of the mists.
After all, who ever told us, taught us, promised, prophesied,
When everybody fussed so momentously over us, at birth,
That existence is just another of death's destinations
And that dying is just another stop on the universe's timetable?
Tonight, seeking solace, comfort, refuge, in my seclusion,
I find myself reckoning with the beckoning demise of my mother,
Who, at this very heart-sigh of mine, has taken to bed, a final time,
And is busy gathering up each one of her ninety-six cherished years,
That she might, independent yet, put closure to her life's enterprise.
Having devoted this entire inevitable Thursday afternoon
To holding her perfectly unshaking, still-beautiful hands, fingers,
Kissing her gently closed eyelids, unquivering lips, smooth cheeks,
Reassuring her serene, drowsing being
That she has her firstborn's permission to slip from her family's grip,
I spend these waning hours of my peaceful grieving
Repeating what she whispered two days ago:
"Now, I want to go home, to my mother and to my husband."
And I know that the sooner she does, the sooner she'll live again.
10/06/11 - (1)
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