Surrendering Dust

If all time is eternally present,

                        All time is unredeemable...”  
                                                             T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”

The dust stirred of its own

On a windless day—
Maybe the sunlight,
Or the memory of dew
Drying in warmth from the sun
Lifted the dust.
We cleared the orchard of children
Counted four—
What of the fifth?
Was there a fifth?

We forgot the one fond of small spaces

She made so little sound
For one who liked to sing—
You had to know where to listen,
In the silence of song
Under tunnels of leaves,
Burning green in the early hours,
Darker by moonlight.
At the sound of footsteps
Only the leaves breathed.
Her eyes became blackberries—
You wouldn’t know
They kept watch.

After the playing in leaves

Was done,
We accustomed ourselves to what remained,
Compensating by reflex.
How can you miss what never was there,
Or no longer there?
How can you grieve what you never had?
What might have been
And what has been
Are all the same, we’re told—
Eternally Now, in serenity of things present,
Surrender the lost time
Surrender the lost...
Surrender.

As if calling it such

Fills the body of word—
No hollow words—
Repeating them often
At least makes a sound
Somewhat of words—
Surrendering dust made a blanket
Of time,

But under it slumbered

The one we forgot,
Except in matters of song
That stayed in small places
However we tried.
She must have thought we tucked her in
Forgetting the lullaby
Forgetting the prayer—

She loved thick blankets

And stars she could see
Through the window.
She said she could hear
The music of stars,
That everyone could
If they learned to be still.
How could we know she was sleeping,
When she stayed so still?

She must have been dreaming of song,

Stirring the dust on a windless day,
With sunlight lifting the leaves—
Not hearing footsteps approach
From the Second World
That doesn’t know of
Dust and leaves,
And what can sleep under them
In tunnels made gold—

How could we know she was sleeping,

            When she stayed so still?

She said everyone could,

Regardless of Worlds, apparently,
Or she wouldn’t have listened to you
Come out of there now,
You’re somewhere—
Startled, she burst from the leaves
Like a pheasant, scaring the horse,
Settled at flight distance
Watchful, awake—
A small feather came away in your hand,
But from the other world
You couldn’t have seen.
She stayed for the song.

If time is unredeemable,
Yet all eternally present,
What is Surrender
But a false word that means
Something like sleep
Or forgetting?
Redeeming time is the Now
That cancels the lost—
The finding and making
Here, if we learn to be still
Is the music of stars.

We fight so little,

And not long enough,
Too easy acceptance
Too much moving past,
We call it a Life,
Repeat the word often,
At least making sounds
Of something like words—

Humankind can bear Reality,

As we bear the pain of birth,
A fact to be accomplished
In defiance of Time
That tells us to leave
The dust unstirred.
                                                              December, 2011

                                                              

Order of Service

The practicality of a Living Will

Secured her clean exit prior to the fact,

Stalled family disputes--

The elderly woman was efficient,

With an excellent eye for detail:
 

          Bought the casket,

          Designed her stone,

          Selected hymns for the service,
 

And was the first church member

To reserve the Sunday flutist

For her funeral songs,

Fancying the thought of a single pipe

Warbling like a ruffled wren—

She imagined herself perched

On a branch outside the church
Looking in to see the service
Unfold as planned. 

It surprised her,

The satisfaction it brought,

Preparing her Event—

Surprised her too that no one found it morbid.

People these days are improving, she thought,

Better at saying the right thing.

So far, everyone had said the right thing:

“Of course, Miss Evelyn,”

“As you wish,”

“I’d be honored.”

Her oldest daughter even offered to help,

Suggested a trip to the mall to buy clothes.

They passed an evening together

Sorting family recipes, deciding about the meal.

It reminded her of when they planned the wedding,

Except without the date set, or the RSVP—

The excitement of Occasion,

All in the Order of things.  

She felt a sense of accomplishment,

When there was nothing left but the waiting.

Words of benediction rose unbidden in her mind,

The Peace which passeth all human understanding...

Yes, that was it—

Beyond understanding—

A burden lifted, as if her decisions had

Settled something vague, but once and for all,

Like separating eggs,

Or sieving broth.  

Still, she went over details in her mind,

Of the corpse itself, what would show,

Who would do the washing and dressing.

She hoped it would be a woman, at the funeral home—

                                                           Someone kind.

                                                  December 13, 2011

           
           
           

Eurydice Released

Upon return,

She spoke in strange words,

Or words familiar, but the application

Too old, or new, or still wet

From the oceans between worlds,

Where she accepted instruction

In all forms of water travel. 

She prefers her music purple, for example,

For how it flashes dark

Against the black sky—

Says Thunder really isn’t as loud as all that,

How on the other side it’s soft to the touch,

More like tiger fur than large drums.

She loosens her hair to blow wild

For Brahms.

She explains how she learned

That when God separated the Waters

From the Air, in the Beginning,

That they derived from the same substance,

And this is why the streams and currents interchange,

As we interchange, forgetting which Element

Owns us, for the moment—

Sound or silence,

Arrival or departure,

Grief or joy. 

At the moment of her release,

She confused Heaven and Hell,

Thinking God might be in both places,

Or how else was this possibly God?

The last gate vanished,

If it was ever there to begin with. 

Despite her Odyssey,

Her return has gone remarkably well.

She’s fond of clothes shopping

At the finer stores,

Seeks good conversation over meals,

And favors street musicians,

After the opera lets out,

Where once again the world

Rejoices her release,

While Ovid rolls in his grave

Cursing Peri. 

                                                December 6, 2011

Note:  In his opera of 1600, Peri and Cacinni changed the ending of Ovid's account of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, allowing them to rejoice together upon Eurydice's release.  Montiverdi, however, stayed true to the original.

Prosthetic

In peaceful levitation,
She looks down
From the sterile ceiling
Upon procedures executed
With cold skill--
Amputations, autopsies--
She watches, coma-like,

                                      But better
To find that faint water stain
Shaped like a small footprint,
Like the one on her Certificate,
And stare at it instead,
Wondering where the child went
Who could walk upside down
On ceilings in her room.

Or did she do that?

Eventually she was cured,
Stitched to a prosthetic body
Very life like,
And released.

See the tricks she makes it do
In a show of Fakir magic:
          Dissolves herself into air
          Impervious to mortal pains,
          Walks barefoot over broken glass--
          Never of this world
          But some days,
                    Good enough to pass.

                                                                 September 6, 2011