"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." ― Rumi
At A Nature Preserve, January 2012
The Year Before Dad Died
January opens a sliver of warmth
as my husband and I
traipse through fresh mud,
past wadded-leaf squirrel nests, and
over discarded acorn tops.
My boots collect clumps of
soil in their ridges. When the trail
widens I slide my grimy soles
over loose gravel,
and beg it to remove the soil.
What I really want is to cover
my father with more than
a thin, white institutional blanket
as he lies a few miles away
in his narrow nursing home bed,
even though I know in minutes
he will thrash about, the blanket tossed aside,
as if it were tissue paper that could be
blown across this lake with a single breath,
his thin arms and legs exposed.
They didn’t take off my stockings last night,
he told me. And yet his nurse claimed
he’d been confused.
I responded that he may not recall detail,
but he recognizes pain.
I wanted to say,
Can’t you see beyond the stroke,
the tremors, the uncertainty,
and age? Can’t you see the man?
The words blew away,
more quickly than bitter winds
scatter October’s leaves.
I speak now to the stark brown
outline of trees
until I discover the blue above them,
the same brightness that celebrated August
with strips of white spanning the sky
before the goldfinch dulled his feathers,
when the hummingbird’s wings rarely paused,
and tomorrow was only a word.
I allow the spirit of the Preserve
to open the way
to beauty
present even now
in winter chill,
in touching pain,
in healing the deepest hurts.
I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted, and behold, service was joy. (Rabindranath Tagore)
Fernald Nature Preserve, 2012
The Year Before Dad Died
January opens a sliver of warmth
as my husband and I
traipse through fresh mud,
past wadded-leaf squirrel nests, and
over discarded acorn tops.
My boots collect clumps of
soil in their ridges. When the trail
widens I slide my grimy soles
over loose gravel,
and beg it to remove the soil.
What I really want is to cover
my father with more than
a thin, white institutional blanket
as he lies a few miles away
in his narrow nursing home bed,
even though I know in minutes
he will thrash about, the blanket tossed aside,
as if it were tissue paper that could be
blown across this lake with a single breath,
his thin arms and legs exposed.
They didn’t take off my stockings last night,
he told me. And yet his nurse claimed
he’d been confused.
I responded that he may not recall detail,
but he recognizes pain.
I wanted to add,
Can’t you see beyond the stroke,
the tremors, the uncertainty,
and age? Can’t you see the man?
The words blew away,
more quickly than bitter winds
scatter October’s leaves.
I speak now to the stark brown
outline of trees
until I discover the blue above them,
the same brightness that celebrated August
with strips of white spanning the sky
before the goldfinch dulled his feathers,
when the hummingbird’s wings rarely paused,
and tomorrow was only a word.
I allow the spirit of the Preserve
to open the way
to beauty
present even now
in winter chill,
in touching pain,
in healing life.
terrypetersen 