She was picked from a group as the best of the bunch.
Skin silky smooth – water could barely touch.
Firm but not resistant, to a blade made for this instant…
And we feasted…
on the first ripe tomato from our garden.
That cloud great with witnesses.
Weeps at times.
Leaks at times.
When fear or grief
or pangs of birth
Strike at those under its gaze.
Those afraid, hurt or in labor
Feel the rain from heaven –
It’s source, unknowable.
Yet, the drops are fresh relief
From heat of battle with one another
From pain residing deep within
From the strain of flesh giving way to new life – even unknown new life.
And the drops, they form a stigmergy
a way to a stream which can be followed.
Followed at last to a place
A place of peace and rest.
Once, when one called out, “I thirst”
The cloud heavy with witnesses
burst forth with rain from saints.
And energy enough…just enough…
“It is finished.”
Finished? The cloud keeps watch. The drops still fall.
The cloud awaits for us to hear.
The surgeon wielded a chainsaw
Strapped to his hip
a low hanging gun.
Vines of artificial hemp lifted and held fast to the surgeon
as spiked heels dug into the patient’s flesh.
The mechanical, maniacal roar of the scalpel
would cut and prune
in a effort to bring the patient
to a place of acceptance.
Acceptance by those who occupied the structures
made of relatives long ago murdered.
Correction brought with
and a single finger that gripped and pointed,
pointed and gripped.
From time to time a telling thump
could be heard as branch or limb
fell to sun hardened earth.
Could anyone hear the cries of the patient?
“You cut too deep!”
“You pruned too much!”
Sap spilled over the skin from open wounds
tears not unlike those shed
by a jilted lover
a shamed child.
Silent, yet filled with experiences unshared,
unknown by any other.
Over time the patient slept
and attempted to recover from correction
as sunshine teased wounded limbs
to bring forth life again.
Water sprinkled wound and ground –
or just to say the healing ritual had be done?
Yet, the surgeon cut too deep.
The patient, now a victim,
Indeed this piece is about the loss of a tree in my front yard. At the same time, this tree and its loss has become something of a metaphor to me of battles I am seeing fought all to often.