Now living in a tent , upon awakening , under my cloud-like pillow of feathers , I find a poem written on pink tissue paper , folded so carefully like my mothers floral batiste handkerchief . I hear Baby Blue Samsonite ( Sammy ) sigh , sigh long as she sits in the far corner enjoying the canvas walls gentle movement . . . I often wonder just what she does while I sleep … especially now in the tent ! She holds , like a drawer , all my clothes neatly placed in piles of cotton , silk and wool and yet lately I find them in a confusing mess as if she loaned them in the night to someone else , with my green vintage dress ( the dress of infinite possibilities ) rumpled in a heap on top . Just WHAT has she been up too ! Her sigh this morning is all-consuming like the grace of a beatitude which is why I’m not really angry with her mysterious antics .
Photo by Aela Labbe
The poem is dated November 6 , 2011
I see him out
my window where
the heavens crack
the rain splashing the sky
a scent pungent falling
a crown upon his head .
he enters the room
no one sees him come in .
the curtains move
like oceans touching land
shadows sink
with the sun onto the floor
a symphony strand .
I see him .
the others gathered here,
a celebration taking place ,
seem not to notice ,
the stir around them
quieting me .
Mouths moving
i hear not their sound
only his gaze familiar and sweet .
and when he goes
no one knows he’s left
but I do
and cry at the emptiness
like drops of rain disappearing
onto petals of flowers unknown
that bring forth
a vision of life
of that which remains
a cover of silvery stars
in his pale brown eyes
looking at me .
standing in the doorway
a room in my view
a vision so handsome
i see him still
a crown on his head
resting upon my flying bed
reflecting a mist
where I exist .
In the Bhagavad Gita , Krishna tells Arjuna , ” Nothing is ever lost . What you relinquish on the material plane you will rediscover a thousand times more wonderfully in God “.
Photo by Lara Zankoul
