Musings on Life
Coyote howls outside the patio door.
3 a.m. and someone’s out of bed
turning on lights, checking windows and rain
starting to sound against the skylights.
When we stirred the creature vanished.
Isn’t that the way even here at the cusp
of the arroyo? Just as when the lizard
with its stumpy tail meets the cat
through the window, nose to nose,
where’s that missing camera?
Before I move the lizard goes.
The cat lingers of course as she
is apt to do when something great
disrupts her boredom.
Now it’s noon.
Everyone is gone.
Everyone my genes inform is gone.
One arrived sick was fine when he left.
One arrived diagnosed with something dire
went home with new gadgets to distract or heal his pain.
Which goes to show that brocade skirts swirl for a reason,
meet their velvet shirt’s waist with hooks for a reason,
matching kitten heels needed for a reason.
Add brilliants at wrist and earlobe.
How the hell do you think we got here?
Mother and Daddy didn’t know
even our names, yet there we were
at their first meeting, tucked in a pocket
handkerchief, linen trimmed with tatting
a gift from Gram. The next photo
shows a cream wedding dress
and veil. And here we are
now wrinkled and fading
in the sun of Florida, leaning
on our railings, waiting.
There’s no philosophy in Politics,
is there? Everything’s repeating.
Power pushing laws into disappearing
in the void Law interrupted
to make things final. It’s open again.
And we can’t FaceTime as planned
because your computer died while mine is fine.
Some say when we die the world
each one knows disappears as well.
The intersections—watch them merge
and morph—glitter and fade in nanoseconds
and look. All gone. In spite of or because
of Ken Wilber’s metatheory (see Wiki).
Didn’t I read that according to the laws
of matter no atom or smaller
can ever disappear? The catch is time.
I won’t dissolve soon enough to catch
the next generation’s egg & sperm uniting.
Too abstract for my taste and comfort.
QUADRANTS LEVELS LINES STATES
Did I miss one?
Even though our Ken’s in bed
he’s still working on a single theory of everything.
And why shouldn’t he? God knows
we need one. Or two. Or many,
that’s the point. Or as Alexander Pope
said, “Whatever is, is right.” Right?
Whoever is right, is. Right?
My heart is doing kitty dances without pause
irregular beats through day and night
and me without a chair to sit in. My death day’s
sooner I suspect without a place to stop and rest.
Am I scared? Not really. Many years I’ve practiced
sitting in my ordinary white chair facing the mountain,
meditating with the Shema and Metta and some other
breathing exercises to take my mind off heaven.
Much movement out the window, all those creatures
defying stasis. And the lovely trees, young and perfect
at the skyline. And gratitude filling up my chest
where the heart is. A body sitting in a chair.
I’m thirsty. Time to drink something pallid and bubbly.