Moments in Seventy Years, Heart, Heart, Unswell

Love is not fate,
nor some duration of frivolous months or years.
It is molecules flung wide,
astral breaches that birth light and our knowing.
We see an owl in a lone cypress,
its tonal voice like air in a ventilator,
a soft whoosh of meaning and yet melodic
as a string of warm, summer days.
There is amber grass
wrapped tight around the nearby pond and all its affairs.

When a child grabs his mother’s hand
he does so without a hint of dawdling.
He is bound by some recessed dread,
the notion that she might sneak away.
Then, an invocation and a wedding,
the passing of a man from one woman to another,
when he must learn how one naked form
can be so transformed as if emerged from cocoon.
There is a white blanket
cast aside to reveal a pocket of warm comfort.

We breathe still air
as long as our wanderings do not cease.
These are durable moments
that require our steep attention.
I see a body in a lone bed,
its breaths like owl voice in the dead of night,
and the body transformed
as if already shrouded in white blanket.
I touch this, my mother’s heart,
one last beat for this important earthly juncture,

and am awed by my time among these wondrous shapes.

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