A gift for you my heart would bring—the sweet release of everything, the breath I take before I sing…
—Jan Garret, JD Martin and Lisa Aschmann
This is what
we were born for—
the almost unbearable
softness of grass,
the sweet perfume
of blue weeds in spring,
listening to voices
that cannot be heard,
and reaching for that
which can never be held.
The popping sound
of the daffodil bloom,
Having our hearts
ripped open, and again
ripped open, ripped open,
still beating,
the weeping, the salt,
the communion of blood,
the awkwardness of it all—
and the grace.
The wanting and
the wanting to not want,
the roar of the river’s brown shush,
wings we don’t have,
the new leafing out
of the old, old cottonwood tree
and the long walk
to the cemetery
not long enough.
Oh this beautiful ache.
Ashes, we are not ashes
yet.
R – this is absolutely stunning.
And the congregation says, “Amen!”
Can’t remember the poet, but I do remember the poem. It goes:
A man’s reach should exceed his grasp
Or else what’s a heaven for?
“…Oh this beautiful ache.
Ashes, we are not ashes
yet.”
(And the congregations siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggghhhhss.)
You make-a me laugh!
Reaching, reaching …
Lovely, the disparate details struggling to find cohesion. I love the “popping daffodils” especially, because I heard them just like that this morning in the front garden. But that rally to the cemetery and then the ashes is good. The new and the old, the human.
So glad you heard the popping, too! I could hardly believe my ears last night as they popped, popped …