The look on her face in a dream
Stayed with me all day
Like a promise I had failed...
....And the grass on which she was standing,
Ante the roses thick on the fences
Were soft and bright, able to renew themselves
As a woman, finally, cannot do.
In this world of climate change, and of a political process that promises a persistent dull ache that is slowly killing spirit and earth, who is not looking north into a future where so little grows? Who among us can look into the long years ahead and not see their own death, or the slow dying of body and mind? I yearn for life and when there is death, suffering, or decay it rises in me in this dark hour as a failed promise. Who does not spend the hours of the day blaming others and oneself for the failed dreams and ailing body, accusing the gods of abandonment, and even, judging the earth and her beings for not being enough. Ah Mary, even in listening and resting, we cannot break our fast with death.
Who do you blame for what might have been? What promises have you made that remain unfulfilled?
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