Dear Reader,
As Word Raccoon and I were working on a different blog post this morning, I was stopped by something in the distance.
It looked like an incredible sweep and funnel of greenish butterflies.
And I wondered, do I know of any butterflies of that hue?
But then I looked closer, and I could see the tree releasing leaves, and I felt a slight shudder.
And then the tree right in front of me also let go of a leaf, as if to say, Yes, it’s happening already.
And then I realized that October will make a year since I lost my youngest sister.
And I thought, I’m not ready. I’ve just begun to be able to press on the loss and it not ooze, just ache.
But even as I write this, slowly, here and there, leaves give up.
And I’m resigned to bare branches too soon.
Here’s a notebook poem from last year that I ran across this morning. It’s not a grief poem, exactly, but today its late-summer leaves feel different to me.
The Earth is a Hive
The earth is a hive
and none of us truly alone.
Let that be a comfort
or no.
From the bees that
dance with the unwilling late-summer leaves,
from the squirrel that chases
his brother up one bouncing branch
and
down another,
the cars that flit and flee,
evidence of life, nonetheless.
Even our bodies are stuffed with bacteria.
I don’t think I want to consider that.
But it’s clear, we are never alone.
I know, I know, WR had to go and twist that last bit. It’s what she does. And it may be a bit muddled all the way around, but that’s why it’s a notebook poem, duckies.
Drema