She sends me news of bluejays, front,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills,
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost....
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and bluejays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart:-
She know how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries...
Strange that there can be wild excitement in listing what is already lost. In this knowing of our true lives, as I look up at the stars in this cold January morning, I think of my father who died 20 years ago this season. He never told me if he cried, though I saw him once do so over the death of a woodpecker whose mate would not leave her side. I believe he cried for the plans he and the woodpeckers had made, for naught. I wonder though that if holding that list of disappointment if a heart beats in open wonder a ever growing list of abundance.
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