These are two poems I wrote on loss and transition.
Old growth
You perseverate,
Each time you see a flower grow,
The thought unbounded, mind in overdrive,
No distraction to pause or slow you
For years, you walk through fields of blossom,
considering the storms and winds ahead,
unprepared for the drought that came from below.
You arrive to a dinner table minus one chair,
minus all the gaggle.
Meeting of minds less excited about the future,
More reminiscence of the past.
As old growth, you are spoiled by the sun,
Ready to share whatever is needed,
Fertilize and water for future plans.
You have more of that to offer,
But the ground will soon be barren.
You're not ready for the last time he listens to your voice,
Nodding approvingly of everything you do right
Your remaining gift, resting as mulch, untouched for the times
The door slams, wind hustles into the living room
You feel all the movement, none of the joy
Yet your thoughts recall what you had
Moments of connection and touch
A father's greeting unspoken, but keenly felt
Retreat
Retirement. He feels the words cross other's lips,
with reverence and respect for what is to come.
The sweet thought of work for nothing yet live for free.
He pinches every penny, depositing in his piggy bank.
Pencils out a future of faith, family, friends
and happiness. Runs the rat race in continuing distress,
his body chugging along unable to keep up with
the fleeing thoughts of success.
The sugar of growth is sweet, but herded by aphids
rather than gently sapped from the maple of life. Thousands of
pinpricks leaving more suffering than a giant hole.
Sun rises with a call, sets with an e-mail.
Nights interrupted by the banshees of the todo.
Sweat drips off his forehead as he wakes up,
his mind runs awash with that one last meeting.
The horrid demon of achievement admonishes every moment
of equilibrial bliss to shoo off.
One more time. Stress. "An opportunity to grow, self-improve".
Turn lessons into fruits of labor.
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger".
He takes his pen and ticks it off on the paper
collected on the wooden edifice by his side, and in the register of his mind.
The day comes, he releases the tools of his trade
from his clammy, uncertain hands.
Kisses galore, kind goodbyes. Separation.
Hands shake, empty touch, no violence intended.
Clean slate.
Once,
he felt the tight embrace and caress
of his mother and father as they transitioned lives
all their own.
Now,
the waterwheel of time has turned, the Noria turned a cycle.
His youthful observance of change and connection in his
small town left a mark. The warmth enveloping his family
like a tight embrace.
Al fresco meals,
dark coffee by the lake,
with a cookie,
forest walks during sunrise.
His eyes fall on his pencil, realizing that this plan, too,
must survive contact with the enemy.
Invasion, fire, asteroid collision, nightly sweats:
he hunches how fears of solitude and boredom will first arise.
As the weeds grow, he starts whacking,
As the flowers bloom, he starts picking.