Saturday, March 12, 2011

A bleak and cloudy day, with matching mood

The horror and tragedy in Japan is almost more than the mind can take in. So much suffering is painful to watch and impossible to ignore. My heart goes out to those people whose lives changed so totally in just a few terrible seconds. And let's not even talk about the nuclear disaster potential.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I tend to become self-involved when circumstances outside myself become overwhelming, so I'll bring the focus down to the nearly manageable and talk about ME. This healing business is a bit of a drag. Oh, I know, because someone tells me this at least once a day...these things take time. But I grow impatient when my head feels like it weighs 50# and I can't make it through a whole day without some serious drugs. I'm a busy woman -- places to go, things to do, people to meet. Well, okay, slight exaggeration, but try doing your income taxes while medicated. It might sound like a good idea, but I'm not sure the IRS will accept my excuse if I have made a gigantic, moronic mistake. Anyone out there willing to visit me in the slammer? (That's when you find out who your friends really are!)

So enough whining. I know I'm getting better, but oh so slowly. Made me feel a bit melancholy and looking out the window by my desk I notice the glaring absence of my beautiful Yucca tree that we lost in the freak freeze (8 degrees here...most unusual!) a few weeks ago. I miss it. Thus the poem.


when the rare and ruthless freeze was over
we had lost every tender plant, each sprout
that had dared believe in February blackened
and bare, even the hardiest, and the yucca,
whose silhouette was my morning canvas
against the red-orange sunrise, blown down,
finally ruined by the ice-borne wind.

we dug it out of the ground, its papery, string-like
leaves now dull and sodden with my tears. I grieve
for that particular curve in the low wall, created
as a niche for the stunning specimen, whose lily blooms
announced each spring in a glowing white coronet,
reaching its bizarre and twisted arms to the sky,
as close to a prayer, I think, as a plant may aspire.

No comments:

Post a Comment