Cold is a lonely thing
a childless park
a street frozen-rutted
silent, stark.
Hard world
for tiny chickadee
hopping zig-zags
in empty tree
twig to twig
at life’s behest
lone Galahad
in Grail’s quest.
Tag Archives: park
Vagaries in Gestation: November 28.16
Yesterday I drove to the park and, as always, slowed on the adjacent street, where little wiggly people are unloaded from back seats. A car at the curb had its doors open on the street side, so I stopped and waited.
A man stood at the side of the car, arm outstretched, helping someone out. Not a wiggly little person but a ponderously slow older person. A woman. Bundled warmly against the November day, she held his hand tightly. I caught only a brief glimpse of her but I knew. I knew those blank eyes and that empty face. I knew that slight curl inward. I couldn’t swallow because of the lump in my throat and I couldn’t see because of the tears. It all comes back so quickly.
I walked around the park and so did they. No. They did not walk. She moved her feet in that familiar shuffle, achingly slow, leaning hard on him. His baby steps described patience beyond words. Twice I noticed that they stood in embrace, she apparently clinging to him.
There was a slight wind, causing tears to run down my face. I tasted their salt and was grateful for the release.
Caregiving and dementia change people so I cannot say if he were husband or son, but I think son. I think the husband was at the playground with a little granddaughter, he seeking respite which isn’t because there is no respite from dementia. It is merciless in its constancy and as steely cold as the water in the creek.
I stood over the creek yesterday and thought about the cold water that runs through life and the daunting aloneness of those who stand firm in it.
Connections: September 16.16
A tree with antlers
lives in the park
I thought it fiction twisted
but then I saw
the bony bough
and allowed that the tree-stag existed.
Thanks again to the S. W. Berg Photo Archives and Stock of Woodsy Lore.
Connections: September 13.16
Once upon an autumn day
when the world was turning gold
shadows mocked in counterplay:
tomorrow you’ll be too old.
Connections: September 5.16
In the park
in the season of no name
greens waver
the high grass
restless, uncertain
twists
as a wistful air plays
against its parchment edges
sighing
a sepia wash hovers
over the letting-go
but
here and there
a regal smear
of purple.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Connections: August 22
The Swiss Guard of the park
hissed that he would bust us
we maintained our innocence
but still he didn’t trust us.
All we wanted was photos
but he stood his little bug ground
defending the monarch’s milkweed
colorfully honor-bound.
Connections: September 18
The creekside frou-frou
in the park
disdains the looming cold,
regally ruffled
in yellowing green
with brooch of saffron gold.
The asking
In the library I walked among books.
Bent to their planes
I read
as tombstones
the names.
Bonhoeffer.
Flinching,
I passed by.
But then back.
Wide-handed
fearful
I lifted
regarded
assented.
In the park I stopped
mid-bridge
attentive by decree:
the water is loud today
I said to myself
urgent
insistent
roiling and grey.
The eyes in the round glasses
looked back at me
from sun-checked splash
his words already
seeded
sounding.
Who am I?
Bonhoeffer asked
entombed
enwombed
in Nazi prison
soulkeening for flowers
leaves
creeks.
Alone
orphaned of all
but self and faith
he held.
Would I?
The water is loud today.
On 20 January I went to the library and then to the park. I am not the first person to leave a library with inconvenient questions.
Oddments 