Celebration

As I flew past
on wings buoyed by
the turbulent winds of
rawness
she reached out,
grabbed me
with a hand so withered and worn
by remorse, by duration
that my heart
was stilled.

She fixed me,
smothered me
with the power,
drew me close
with an essence
that could not be contained.

"Mark well the passage," she sighed
with suspiration so shoal
I feared it was dream.

She clutched me with
a look---a desire
so ferocious that it
squeezed promises from me
before I could resist.

"Each occasion,
both grand and commonplace,
with ritual so intricate
so complex
that the memory
will burn when touched.

Mark the children,
So that they know the
transitions,
the passing,
and the responsibility
that comes with
the bursting of familiar barriers.

Mark yourself,
so there can be no doubt
of where you have been.

Only by this,
nothing else,
will the transit
seem coherent

Only by this
by the decorations
hung
will you have the courage
to move on"

Then
she was gone

And I cried,

cried

for there on my wrist,
were the scratches
of her
life.