Moving Back To The Center

The sun rises in the east window now.

It's arc above the ever turning earth

Overcomes the white goddess

As she recedes toward the north pole.

Wind swept hills are showing earth.

And my being is prying itself

Away from the pivot of a life past.

In the dark night wanderings

I find comfort in the now waning moon.

It's tinsel light filtered by the giant sprawling spruces Whispering a chorus in the north wind pulling a cold front over crusted snow Still grasping the dormant grassland.

My heart is re-filling, it's wrench-tight Tension has pointed my grief inward To the times within love's journey Marched along a trail of sensual attraction and awe.

I carry joyfully the memories, yet too

My sense of space is uncoiling

From the knot pulled tight by her last breathe And the silence that caved into darkness at her passing.

No 'Goodbye' wave, just a lesson in stillness.

No facial recognition, only the definition of one From which I humbly try to find a safe distance; As a fawn might from a disease stilled doe.

Now, with that hard earned space and endless time from the scene My senses tingle and begin like new, To report and sort the other sounds; The flux of scents in the ever moving breeze, The touch of my surroundings As I wade in again, brushing against The always changing skin of evolving earth.

At a point, the fear of alone in this new unknown Unwinds. No!  Sheds like old skin Showing a new hide, and I am encouraged.

I move farther out.

I cannot see her, but she is ever present.

The past and the future become now again.

I look at myself, begin to whistle and start to work.

Tess arrives from scavenging about; her job.

We play a while with her toys, now mine too.

And the day glows against the lingering snow.

The tether hangs loosely.

And the weight of being alone is lighter-- A balloon in my hand signaling solidarity-- A need to belong comes in like a tide at my call.

I move in and out from within myself, cautiously Trying on things alone:

Like a different than usual hat, or

A memorable tune on an abandoned mandolin.

Even sometimes, the thought of being loved again Ripples gently through me as I watch long from my window The shadow cast by the budding naked birch

Strolling past.   My self silently re-emerging at the center.

-Ron Crete 2013