At Least
“No. Let me have this dust,
These pale clouds dourly lingering, these words”
-Adrienne Rich
Pain and grief are such strangely strong
Bedfellows
The seeds are planted and watered with salt
Dug down deep in rich soil, made of things quite dead
The stories stay swirling
Although you try to drop them
Skip them across the swollen stream
They find their way, boomeranging back to your bedside
When you thought you were alone
Thirsting for the sound of something less sour, perhaps
Your own heart’s song
But she trembles, you
tremble
You, whose professed super power is love
Have a voice that trembles as she sings for you
It’s true
I have read that the work we do
Is empty
Unless there is love
And I have read of the perils
of attachment. So
How is there love
Without attaching?
I’m learning that the letting go isn’t
A release of love
Is not a release of Hope
Or of carefully defined ties
But of
Expectations
It is a release of ever thinking
Our growth
With grow another along side us
The bravest of dreamers crumble
At the thought of this
This release of hoping we can
Heal
Someone special
We watch them cauterize their hearts
To prevent that familiar pain
From coming back again
And also prevent the gifts
We must welcome most
The unwelcomed guest
I see things
Know them
FEEL them
And fail to live them
Just as you do. All things
Die
End
Leave
And still I see
The power
In seeing, trying, touching
I see the power of hope. Let me have that, at least.
At least there is that.
