they want to recuse themselves. Call it an act
of God, blame climate change, the list is long.
The “not me “generation is an army
of Jedi masters adept at deflecting blame.
Not me, they say, not my problem,
as if their lives were as pure as the first snow.
Imagine that dead tree hovering over the roofline,
saying not me, as a limb sloughed off during the storm.
Or the outcrop, loosened by rain, galloping into traffic,
saying not me, not my fault. The cliff did it, it let go.
It let go of my hand in the dark.
Or the rising river after the storm,
nibbling away at the ancient shoreline
as the old house threw off its moorings
to set sail for the open mouth of the sea.
The sea whispered, not me, not me,
as a sneaker wave swept over the fishing boat
too far from safe harbor to be saved.
What treasures the sea holds, what stories it has to tell,
Or as Joyce famously wrote, Thálatta! Thálatta!
invoking an earlier voyage of epic proportions.
The great mother. We strive to live the heroic life
fraught with challenges, in order to emerge victorious
on the other side of the conundrum, testing our mettle
against the elements, each trough and rise of the waves
bringing both despair and reward.
This warrior stance we attempt, with no spirit guide,
in an ordinary world, we hope will sustain us.
Such treasures, such stories we hold,
we each hope to live a life like that.
Oh, to be alive! The sea, the sea.
11/9 Terri Glass Write On!
I am considering tossing the last two stanzas. The energy begins to fail.
No comments:
Post a Comment