Arlene Corwin writes

Sitting Outside A Day In May 

      

I find myself not only wondering [but] 

Thirsting, needing to know when and how they died, [but]

Thoughts or suffering or not: in short,

The state before and during…

I observe a skin that’s wrinkling,

Drying out and shrinking,

Hear and spy a bird in tree,

See the freshness, spring’s new growth,

The only thing I really see is death, a passing.

I allow myself my breaths,

The moods, desires -

All that goes along,

Forgetting for the most part.

Deep down I see the buds of parting

And an emptiness because

I have no answers.

All that I can do is wait and act and meditate

As if life equaled all time-in-the-world.

Every year in spring

I find I’m writing,

Charting age unconsciously,

Literally marking time.

Not sad, not glad but emptier

Than years before,

(or maybe more).

Noticing, acknowledging a substance;

The substantial underlying all the grandeur.

 

One Day in May -- Birgit Kirke