LEANING

Leaning into the setting sun,

I can know peace.

The heated flurry of the day just past

dissolves as I lean into what I see:

the truth of me reflected by the dying light.

And this is all I need

before I face the night.

WEATHERED ANGEL

Even angels

reach a point in time

when one wing must be folded close…

retired from efforts to sustain a balanced flight.

 This angel’s weariness is clear to me:

The pull of gravity

is a gift she yields to gladly;

I sense a grateful leaning

into all that life has wrought.

This favored wing

has served her well

has brought her to the heights of glory

and beyond.

Now she must bless it’s failure to arise and fly…

bless pain and weariness…

bless molting feathers and fragility.

Beloved evidence of  countless dances with the clouds,

it is now time to rest.

I feel the weight of your surrender…

As I prepare myself for my own surrender – surgery on my own right wing (my shoulder) – this small clay sculpture of an angel appeals to me. “Look again at your creation from another life. Twenty-three years ago you lifted my warm beauty from the kiln and marveled at the work of your own hands. My soft pink glow was pristine then. Your dancing body – though not so young – was strong and vibrant. Dance was a way of life for you, while sculpture was a little something on the side. But the message was the same: Yield to gravity and accept the gift of rising. My message then – though my particular substance be forgotten – is reaching you anew. My aged form has stood upon the ledge surrounding your screen porch. Your glance has passed me by for years. Rains have blown through and I have softened in the humid air. Storms have threatened my survival. The summer suns blazed down relentlessly, re-firing me, re-hardening my surface. My original purity of surface is quite different from the surface you perceive today. The grime of years is baked into my porous self, and from the accumulated moisture of all the years, a green patina causes me to reflect the foliage of the great outdoors. You now admire my greenish glow and photograph me as yet another gift from nature’s bounty. Yes… I have gotten a little carried away. Perhaps I seem to carry a grudge. Actually, these words are simply a small reflection of your journey. Life has been hard, and you have weathered a variety of inner and outer storms, not to mention tedious repeats of the seasons.  The point is this: You have survived…as I have. Miraculously, our substance is still present…still capable of giving and receiving messages that bring life into focus. And life continues even as we let it go. Though we lie down – or sit on a ledge forgotten –  life is doing it’s little magic tricks. And we are still playing our part.”

FLIGHT COMPANION

Beside the road

a cloud of golden flowers,

and supping from their hearts:

A Monarch butterfly.

My camera tracks her flight

from heart to honeyed heart.

The creature finds it difficult

to cease her flying.

Her brilliant color…

the distinctive pattern on wings

may fascinate my camera’s eye,

yet these same wings

are frayed and tattered from her journey.

Their lingering yet incomplete magnificence

reminds me that

my own wings droop and drag these days.

They, too, are torn from my devotion to the journey.

Yet – like the butterfly –

I shall not stay my flight,

but honor every quivering response

to an old heart’s pulsing courage.

I shall continue to sup nectar from each flower.