(Thoughts this morning led this to that. I am in a contemplative mood, nothing more. I don’t want anyone reading this to fear for me. Once again, I thought about keeping this private, for exactly that reason, but I made a promise and I aim to keep it, so this stays public. That alone should put you at ease.)
When you find hair in the drain, whether
black, white or blue, you’ll wonder if it could be;
I tell you now, that will be me.
Bite at the inside of your cheek and feel
a tap on your hand, “Stop that,”
you’ll hear. That will be me.
Whenever you feel the urge to cut your hair
and hear a voice inside your head, “Let it grow,”
it wheedles. That will be me.
And when you see a turtle, or a camel,
in fact or in illustration, you will add a heart to it
and again, that will be me.
When words froth at your brain and you feel
the need to catch them,
by heart or by hand;
When you see a dragonfly and call it fairy, a baby dragon
in an anole; when a beam of sunlight becomes a path to another world,
That will be me.
When friends drop by and you need to feed them, when baby monkeys
make you cry; when you smell onions sauteing in olive oil, and fear choking on pudding.
Me, me, they are all me.
Such ties don’t break when life does.
They simply change shape and form.
It won’t matter if whatever is left of me once life has spit me out
is riding the ether of some astral plain, Or
simply the echo of what once was, what I was.
It will be me, like it is him.
I hear him whistle;
and sing. All the time
I see him smile;
and shake his head.
I feel his joy, and his despair that
share time in his space, even now.
Spirit or memory, there is no cognitive difference when
love is at the core. Love,
and need; love and
the hubris to believe there is
more to existence than life.