November
Tuesday 23 October 2012 photo 1/1
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For that I reserve the right to rail
At the first commandment carved on the womb:
Who we love we will watch die
Who loves us will watch us die...
My loss is as deep as my love
And the agony of this endless ending
Is a hard price to pay
For such tenderness.
There is a cycle of life, perhaps
Our flesh may be born again
Our hair, eyes, stories, watches even -- passed on
We are circular winds of starlight
A larger pattern of falling pieces
But --
But so little of what matters to us
Is bound in mere matter...
We are deep layers of meaning
Our bodies are like prehistoric insects
Our histories drown them
In lakes of clear amber.
At death, the lake, the amber;
The deepest lacquer of our visible souls
Dries, vanishes, ashes in a whirlwind of blind renewal
And the body -- the least important footnote of our histories --
That is recycled!
And the earth, which could wake and wonder at our memories
Dumbly accepts our shells
And calls itself content.
Now we know, really know of this loss
Tell me: why do we love?
There is a kind of immortality in detachment
(never feeling a death before our own --
it could remain a surprise, an accident,
a careening bus with a black cloak at the wheel...)
Or, knowing the wild grief of this falling
Would our love twist with the terror of impending loss?
Would such natural flowers wilt in the heat of our possessive greenhouses?
Annons
Camera info
Camera U1i
Focal length 6 mm
Aperture f/2.8
Shutter 1/31 s
ISO 125
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