Photo by S. Auberle
I don't know what sweeping has to do with
grieving--maybe because dirt is something we can control--rather than this black-winged death-angel who has
visited today. And so this morning I sweep and sweep again. Sand and hair and the faded shells of ladybug
bodies gather obediently beneath my broom, to be put in their proper place--the
trash-- instead of in my life where they are gritty beneath my feet and sad.
Making soup is good too, for the upcoming rainy
days. I gather onions and peppers, corn,
black beans, some broth and herbs, throw it in the pot as clouds gather, then
pass. The good smell says comfort, says home,
say's everything's gonna be
While the soup simmers, I sit in brief sunshine, among orioles and rose-breasted birds, dazzling in their fancy nuptial
plumage. For a while the clouds are
parting, rain is holding off another hour or day. The world is bright, shining with
spring. How could anyone leave on such a
day as this? How could anyone make us leave? Why why must we too soon?
A flock of pelicans wheels above, ahead of a thick
bank of clouds. The birds' wings glow
with an unearthly light and the shadows of them fall on one daffodil blooming
at the edge of the pines.
From my porch chair I spot old winter dirt and, as
rain begins, pick up my broom once more…
RIP: Michael Marshall ~1941-2014