Disassociate
a kind of ending
In the days you left behind there is quiet, and new things, even in the death-heat of summer. The roses finally grow, up past the porch rail, as I had wanted them to do; the weeds mowed by someone not so broken. The thread that connects me to earth thins, and I see the tunnel narrow from above, down to the bed where I lay, to the little house with the dog. Receding. And as in the Book, I watch all the bright colors walk past and away, a silent padding toward the earth, no longer threaded together like beads on the thinning thread but separate, overheated and frayed by too much rough handling. Summer cicadas Roar through eternal, hollow night skies. Indifferent. Without the will to tend the remains I surrender to leave what we all leave. I wait for the images to fade. The litter of half-baked intentions stuffed into closets and drawers. I could have chosen differently-- but from this distance regret feels like love. Regret held me here, I know that now, and now know even regret fades. The watching contains no pain. The goodbyes barely register. Your red coat glares but I don’t bring your memory to the place my mind sees the parade. I know that all will be well, and all will not be well, and what can sing will sing, and what can cause pain will cause pain. It was all decided, and not by me, and not by you. There is no lesson Only time and what we make Of our place here/now The sibilance exhausted, the thread ever thinning, thins. Unschooled in this I wait to be surprised where surprise no longer lives. There is no gingerbread house and no wolf inside. The grandmothers have gone long before. The Prince lives alone in his caravan, tires flat, and he waits, too. In the end, we wait to remember where we must go. I recite nothing. No gods attend me. My leaving is only, and finally, increased distance. The mountains fade under irrelevant clouds. There is rain, or no rain; outside the tunnel weather signals flux to those stuck in world. And then – I do not go further. I become present, held in time my steps are unsure. I will not forget The gentle path down this road The absent fragrance.
Remarkable tribute to absence! I especially felt these lines:
“In the end, we wait to remember where we must go. I recite nothing. No gods attend me. My leaving is only, and finally, increased distance. / The mountains fade under irrelevant clouds. There is rain, or no rain; outside the tunnel weather signals flux to those stuck in world.”
How often do we find ourselves standing in weather, which is the emissary of a vast universe that neither knows nor cares about affairs of the human heart? Only to discover we ourselves may be part of infinity, if only we can admit some meaning beyond the everyday narcissism of narrow self-regard . . .
Wow 🤩