When The Bones Get Cold - By Lorna Crozier
My husband sends me hummingbirds
from his eyes. Only he and I know
he’s going blind. For him, I don’t get old.
His fingers, chapped from gardening, sand my skin,
bring out the grain he cannot see.
I am made beautiful by loss. The moon, too,
grows more far-sighted. Its light compliments:
the smallest birds don’t disagree. There’s a sweetness
that comes from accepting what I am,
not a mountain, not a river, not a tree.
from his eyes. Only he and I know
he’s going blind. For him, I don’t get old.
His fingers, chapped from gardening, sand my skin,
bring out the grain he cannot see.
I am made beautiful by loss. The moon, too,
grows more far-sighted. Its light compliments:
the smallest birds don’t disagree. There’s a sweetness
that comes from accepting what I am,
not a mountain, not a river, not a tree.
~~~~~~~~€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€~~~~~~……
Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
The wise old Oaks in City Park, New Orleans, where more people are dying per capita than NYC.
You never know you are shining until death is just around the next corner. Drive slowly. Know. Accept.
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| Do this as soon as possible. Live your life holding God’s Hand, looking forward. Forget your lack of a childhood due to the monster child molesters, the drunks & the neglect. |
I grew this magnificent being. How can I not love myself????????????
T. S. ELIOT, I love you.
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My sweet Moon, customized from a Blythe doll by the talented Anna Bell in Prague, Czechia.
My sassy Tee Joy, customized by the amazingly creative Sandra Coe in Detroit, Michigan.
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1 comment:
Beautiful post all around, Marion.
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