Depth, like felt in plunge
rocky relief to tickle water
trickle beseep in mossy mouth
of earth reclaiming her stake
albeit sandy and hard to root-grip
Width, like breach of branch
on skin to tender for such treachery
welting like shame and sorrow
that stretches fifty years
down a zigzag mixture
of knowing
but making the same mistakes
Height, like touch of eye to distant star,
so imperceptible a length
that it burrows down
through rod and neuron, into bone
and sinewy supplication makes it seem
as if I owned
that part of brilliance.
Six-by-six: they said,
for they were afraid
of not being held
so sad
for they could have been all of all.
Author notes
I do choose cremation...
jpg - Dali, Thosuand Petals
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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What we hold is everything but what bears the journey in the course of events is worn and empty at the time of parting. Is it better to make a religion of the shell o'er what the shell contained or should we accept the cycle and let ourselves join in the turning of the soil. I for one would choose the later and let my memory be all that is held while my shell's dust becomes the minerals in the root.
Love, Tom B.
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I want to be scattered to the four winds, I never did hold much for small cramped spaces, I like to seek freedom whether now or in eternity
C
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