I called you Willow Woman after our creek trek.
Bound bundle of leafed stems tied at your belt,
Strong walking stick in hand, sprig of willow
Stuck through your straw hatband-
You posed for my camera, one booted foot at shore's edge;
A druid clad in flannel sleeves, Celtic
By nature, if not blood, you found joy
In flitterings, both feathered and translucent wings,
Paid homage to tree sister cuts,
And tumbled stones underfoot.
Long distance, you asked after me,
my well-being, imagine that?
I said, My cement mixer broke.
Imagine . . . me, bereft over mortar,
As your chemo cocktails failed.
My celebrant, I miss you,
Your heart like a pagan wave rising out of time.
The kilted piper's dirge quivers air, even now,
Two summers gone since heather acquired your light.
If spirits dance Eire's verdant hills,
Sweet cousin-kin, you lead them, for no smile
Held more elf than yours, no soul more love
Than the cloak of yours thrown wide,
Warming twig and gnat-and me.
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Comments: 15
You have a true poet's heart, Lynn, in order to express what fills it with such eloquence. I enjoy poetry but have never found myself tearing up because of it... until today.
Your heart like a pagan wave rising out of time.
The kilted piper's dirge quivers air, even now,
Except I keep noticing other lines that I also love. I can keep telling you what a wonderful and talented writer I think you are - you have a gift that allows you to express your feelings so clearly, it always seems like you are just talking, and the message is somehow magical.
Your friend is well honored here, as her spirit and kinship are evident.
Well done.
I said, My cement mixer broke.
Imagine . . . me, bereft over mortar,
As your chemo cocktails failed.
This bit of harsh reality and confession among the otherwise mystical is effective.