The winter is coming and I sweep out the dry bones of leaves and blooms, once alive and so full of expectation. Some are half-bloomed, still daring to hope. It was a good run—We had a good season, the pinks and reds began subtle, then bright. They leapt to life with enthusiasm. Then, grew and stretched up, loving the hell out of everything.
And now everything on my patio is tidy and neat. I sit in my chair by the window with the cool breeze stirring through the windows, open now where once they closed against the summer haze. I haven’t fully seen the beauty of it, this dying season. I still want the pinks and reds and the greens of new growing. I haven’t quite lost the hope that things can be more than they are, whether it be the season, or the hope that there might be, for me, another shining dream just beyond the horizon.
This is the season of intermingled youth and age and it has always left me wistful. It is the time of year, where the two dance together while moving in opposite directions. One looks forward and the other back, but for the moment, they move together hand in hand.
Everyone knows that Herbert loves clover. It his favorite thing next to ice-cream, warm bubble baths and the Guru. Even though Herbert loved clover and the clover kind of liked being nibbled, Herbert also liked daisies when he was in the mood for something slightly more adventurous. However, the daisies were not as receptive to Herbert’s munching and they were not very shy in telling him so.
One day, Herbert was strolling through the meadow on a very bright and shiny afternoon when he came upon a clump of the yellow and white flowers winking in the sunlight. He went in for a nibble only to be accosted by a loud bellowing from the flower below, “Nooooooooooo!” the flower sang out in what was (actually) a very healthy baritone. Herbert jumped with a start, nearly flattening the flower’s companions.
Herbert fell back toward the large copse of oak trees where the pixie-sprites lived. He knocked his little noggin and fell back in a swoon against the welcoming arms of the fatherly oak. When he awoke, he found the pixie-sprites in a circle around him. They seemed o be debating something of great importance to them. The red-haired pixie seemed particularly upset and kept spinning around in a circle, silver glitter flying everywhere.
Herbert slowly gathered his wits (very hard to do) and rose to his hooves to ask what was the matter. They told him in very distressed tones that someone had eaten the Queen of the Pixie’s floral crown. Without it, she would not be able to get the sun to go down and bring out the evening stars. Without the nighttime, the pixies would not get to rest and restore their magic. The stars would dry up and fall from the sky and the world would be lost. The beautiful, red-haired pixie sprite was beside herself with worry.
In an instant, Herbert realized what he had to do. He walked gingerly up to the hill where he had met the daisies just a little while before. He asked them if they would mind being part of the crown for the beautiful pixie. They thought about it for a while and then something wonderful happened (because something magical always happens when you talk to enchanted daisies.) They began to fly in a circle above the beautiful sprite’s head, weaving this way and that until they had completely encircled her head. The baritone decided his singing could weave them together for as long as the daisies survived. In a burst of joyful glitter, the beautiful, red-headed pixie-sprite enchanted the kind-hearted daisies, so that they would never wither. They spent the rest of their known days with her.
It was a useless walk from
There to here
Requisite steps to strengthen weakness
Where there might have been purpose.
Yet I will smile, tight-lipped, and devise
What I should have done
For you still again
It’s strange inhabiting this
I held you
In the palm of my hand
Sweet little thing
Stumbling our way
Through the dance of life
Afraid, awkward– looking forward
Our place at day’s end
Together around a book
You leaned on me
With deep-throated contentment
I held you
In the curve of my lap
Until your limbs went heavy
And the essence of you
Floated to wherever
Good spirits go
Vaulting upward arching in supplication
Reaching inward in gentle longing
For life’s keenest lacks
In the gray morning no poem sang
Within me for grief or love
For all that had died or
The soul’s broken circles
Vaulting upward reaching inward
Through the rose window
Facing south to Our Lady
Healing comes in grace with grace
In silent cathedrals